


Moulin RougeXSherlock

by CountrygalxHetalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountrygalxHetalia/pseuds/CountrygalxHetalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was watching Moulin Rouge a few weeks ago and came up with this idea. If you haven't seen the movie, you may not understand, but I suppose you can go ahead read :) For those of you've who've seen the movie, you know what's coming, so I won't spoil what's ahead. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!! I will be adding a few more warning later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Alright, so real quick!! I've gone back and I'm redoing the chapters, trying to write them a little better so they fit characters and stuff like that! If you're just starting to read this, you shouldn't have to worry, but if you've already started, I just wanted you to know! :) ))

_1900_

_There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye but very wise was he... And then one day, one magic day, he passed my way and while we spoke of many things. Fools and kings. This he said to me... 'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love...and be loved in return.'_

 

John Watson sat with his back against the dark, filth covered walls in his small, cramped, cluttered room, drowning in the bottle clutched loosely in his right hand. He slowly picked his head up from where it lay on his folded arms, resting it back against the wall. His blue eyes were dark, swallowed by sorrow as he looked around his room.

It was in a miserable sort of state. Clothes, mostly dirty, were strewn everywhere. Dishes were piled into corners. Absinthe stains and god knew what else were soaked into the very life of the poor place. John thought miserably that it reflected the dim, broken light of his own dismal soul. He breathed in the staleness of just barely living and the breath left his body as a sigh.  
  
His short blonde hair was tousled and in desperate need of a wash. Moonlight filtered through the filthy curtains and danced prettily across his type writer, mocking him, reminding him. The doctor swallowed, eyeing the lovely made machine. He’d promised.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to his feet, managing to overcome his nausea. He stumbled over to the typewriter and sat down in front of it, running a hand tiredly over his face as he forced his tired, alcohol ridden brain to work. Memories of life at the Moulin Rouge danced through his mind, turning everything more bittersweet. He ran his fingers over its smooth, bluish black surface, wiping away the cobwebs and cursing himself and the tears pressing at his eyes as he positioned his shaky fingers and began to type. He’d promised him this.

_The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love... and be loved in return._

John took a deep breath, thoughts swirling around in his head, making him dizzy as he stared at the words. It was a start. It was the words to live by. It was the only thing the two of them had ever managed. He closed his eyes and took one more deep breathe before continuing on, typing through the ache tearing at his heart.

_The Moulin Rouge . . . a nightclub, the dance hall of the bordello. Ruled over by Mycroft Holmes. A kingdom of night-time pleasures. Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. And the most beautiful of all these, was the man I loved. Sherlock Holmes. A courtesan. He sold his love to men and women. They called him the "Sparkling Diamond", and he was the star... of the Moulin Rouge._

John paused, leaning back and holding his head in his hands. He sniffed, his lips trembling and his heart ripping itself in two. Every waking moment he’d spent in the man’s presence flowed across his memory. He ached with longing. He wanted to touch and hold again. Feel their skin brushing together and the tangled curls knotting around his fingers. He sat up straight, composing himself slightly, and placed his fingers back on the keys, managing to quell his tremors.

_The man I loved is... dead._

He fell back against the chair, tears in his eyes, and looked to the side, out of the window where the dilapidated remains of the Moulin Rouge stood. He didn’t fight the tear that slipped down his cheek, cooling his skin as night air blew in through the open window. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and leaning forward, ready to continue. He felt he would have to be doing this quite a bit over the next few days. He sighed and let the words come to him, ready to tell his story. Their story.

_I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge or the Holmes Brothers. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian revolution. And I travelled from London to be a part of it._

John’s thought were swept away by beautiful, colorful memories as he typed. His first look at Paris as he got off the train, walking down the beautiful, unfamiliar streets. Everything was crisp and so bright in his mind. He smiled faintly and continued.

_On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my father had said._

John sighed, remembering his father’s wild eyes and scraggly face as he yelled at him. “A village of sin!” he cried, waving his arms around. The man shook his head, shooing the distracting thoughts away. His father had always been a bit mad.

_It was the center of the Bohemian world with musicians, painters, writers. They were known as the "Children of the Revolution." Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I’d left medical school to come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and that which I believe in above all things... love._

John let a small grin grace his shaking lips, remembering how excited and ready he had been when he’d first arrived. He could remember nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to get off the train. How he’d been so ready to write no matter what his father had to say about it. “Always this ridiculous obsession with love!” his father shouted in his head, hands defiantly on his hips. John hummed, wondering now if he’d been right.

_There was only one problem, John typed quickly, I'd never been in love! Luckily, right at that moment an obnoxious arsehole specialist fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a grey-haired ‘director’ dressed as a nun._

John sat stumped in his new apartment room, suddenly clueless as what to write now that he was actually in Paris. He jumped up and out of his seat a loud crash sounded from his ceiling and gapped at the man dangling through the hole that had been made. His door banged open not three seconds later and he blinked, turning to look at the intruder. The man looked annoyed and disgruntled as his gaze flicked between John and the unconscious man dangling by his ankle.

“Sorry,” he apologized first off, “the name’s Greg and this is-” “Would you get me down before we do bloody introductions!!” Greg huffed and moved to try and help get him down. “-Anderson. I’m so sorry. We were just trying to rehearse a play upstairs.” John’s eyebrows shot up in curiosity.

“What?!”

 _A play,_ John typed with some restored enthusiasm, his mind distracted, _something very modern called “Spectacular, Spectacular”._ Sherlock would’ve been proud.

Lestrade had to force a smile as he nodded to the floor above them. “And it’s unfortunately set in Switzerland,” he informed him, his eyebrows furrowing as he silently begged John to help them somehow. The shorter simply blinked, unsure of what to do at the moment. Something very unusual for him. “It’s bloody impossibly to rehearse when Anderson’s tripping over everything.” “Oi!”

_Unfortunately, the obnoxious arsehole, who I learned was called Anderson, suffered from being a klutz to the extreme and sometimes ended up even knocking himself unconscious._

“We can hardly get through two lines without him falling over him something.” Anderson growled and tried to reach over to Greg who’d moved out of reach. “You’re the one that needed me, remember?” he yelped. Greg rolled his eyes and John had to keep a smile off his face. “He even trip when he’s not moving, believe it or not.” John laughed at this and Greg grinned, glad he’d eased the tension a bit.

“How is he?” John nearly jumped out of his skin as a voice spoke from above them. A young woman with a long brown ponytail had her head poking out to look at them, a heavy flush covering her cheeks. Then another much grumpier looking face appeared next to the girl’s. It was covered in a thin layer of makeup and looked thoroughly displeased, her dark hair tired back into a loose bun.

“How absolutely lovely that Anderson is continually useless, therefore unable to help finish the scenario to present to the financier tomorrow,” she said, voice thick and sultry as she stood and tossed the papers aside in annoyance. The girl blushed again as the other’s almost nudity was revealed, hidden only by a sheer green robe. Another, John hoped it was the last, face peeked over the edge of the opening.

“We need to hurry Greg, I still have work to do on the music and the lines…,” he trailed off, swallowing nervously and adjusting his glasses as he glanced around at them all. Greg sighed and rubbed his forehead, looking up at the trio above them.  
“We’ll just have to find someone to read the part Irene,” he said, trying to appease the angry looking lady. “And please put some clothes on.” Irene raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips.

“You know I work better like this,” she scoffed, “you’re lucky I’m even in this. And where do you think we can find someone to read the role of a young, sensitive Swiss poet goat herder?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest and looking down at Greg in the most condescending way possible. Greg grinned at that and turned to look at John, clapping him on the back. “I think you’ll do.” The young man smiled weakly as all the heads turned to look at him expectantly.

_Before I knew it, I was upstairs standing in for Anderson, who had knocked his head and was trying to sleep it off._

John stood on a rickety ladder in front a makeshift mountain, now decked in a pair of lederhosen. He was in front of a painted Swiss Alps backdrop and was watching the Bohemians as Greg stood below him, trying to find the words for the melody, though John really wished he wouldn’t sing.

“The hills are animated with,” he paused, and John watched as Molly made some powder flash in a little dish, “the euphonious symphony of descant... Greg’s words mad no sense to John. Mike sat at his Absinthesizer, a rather elaborate form of piano, trying to work on the music, when Irene began calling for order.

“Oh for god’s sake stop, stop, stop, stop. That droning’s insufferable!” she muttered, stalking over and glaring at him, “it’s drowning out my words. Can’t we just stick to a little decorative piano?” Her voice was low and deadly as she looked between them all. John watched the whole scene, biting his lip as he saw the tension growing and at least doubling in size.

_There seem to be extreme artistic differences over Irene’s lyrics to Mike's songs._

Molly had climbed off the ladder she was balancing on and moved to discuss with the group. “I really don't think a nun would say that about a hill,” she said shyly, shrugging slightly as she looked at them. John could tell Greg despised being cast as the nun as he leaned against the nearest wall and downed whatever liquor was closest. “What if he sings ‘The hills are vital intoning the descant’?” Mike asked, looking up excitedly from his Absinthesizer. Irene looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“The hills quake and shake,” Greg offered, not really caring if it worked, just thinking it sounded good as he took a sip of the drink in his hand. Molly shook her head, scrunching her nose in thought. “No, no, no, the hills are… ” Anderson suddenly sat up from his spot on the bed. “The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies.” He pursed his lips and shook his head, glowering as . They all shook their heads and began talking over one another again.

“The…the hills-” John tried to speak up but was quickly drowned out by the bumbling of the group. He sighed, simply watching them argue. Molly and Mike continued spitting out options while Irene stood off to the side, arms crossed over her nearly bare chest. “The hills are chanting . . .” “The hill . . .” John sighed, biting his lip and waving his hands, trying to get their attention. He knew what they needed, if only he could get them to listen. He rolled his eyes and just sang.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!” Everybody froze, their heads turning and staring at the poet in awe. John blushed a bit at the attention, looking around at all the stunned faces. Greg grinned at him, nodding as he set his tumbler down.  
“The hills are alive with the sound of music. Sounds perfect!” Molly nodded enthusiastically, looking to Mike.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music," Mike sang softly, playing along on his piano, “it fits like a glove!” He beamed at John while Irene narrowed her eyes. The blonde smiled and sang another line. “With songs they have sung for a thousand years!” His warm voice filled the large room and sent tingles through the Bohemians. He grinned, stepping down a few steps as the group gasped in delight. Greg looked as if he’d been hit over the head.

“That was brilliant!” he said, looking between him and Irene. “Irene,” he started, swinging the cane he’d grabbed between them and gaining the woman’s attention, “you two should try writing the show together.” Irene’s eyebrows raised and she leaned forward as if she had heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

_But Lestrade’s suggestion that Irene and I write the show together was not what Irene wanted to hear._

Irene pursed her lips and moved over to John, hands on her hips as she looked him over. “Good luck.” She was gone in moment, the door slamming behind her. Greg shrugged it off, grabbing a glass of green liquid and toasting John.

“At least we won’t have to have some half naked woman strutting about.” Mike and Anderson looked a bit disappointed, but Molly sighed in relief. “So, you’re first job in Paris! I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully,” Greg said, downing the drink in one go. Mike leaned forward, beginning to whisper to Greg but John looked at him curiously. He sighed and scratched at his head.

“No offense,” the man said nervously, “but have you ever written anything like this before?” John swallowed and shook his head, looking at the Bohemians.

“No…” he replied quietly. Anderson scoffed and sat up, swinging his legs to the side. “Then how can you be expected to write something as important as this?” John frowned and puffed up, ready to defend himself and his work when Greg walked over and nudged him lightly.

“He’s got talent Anderson. He’s good.” He walked back over and patted John’s leg accidentally brushing his groin and yanked his hand back. “Sorry ‘bout that.” John’s eyes widened and he flushed, nodding as he rubbed his head. Anderson snorted and leaned back. “You just want in his pants!” Greg rounded on him, eyes blazing and Anderson backed off. “Yeah alright, sorry, just the talent.” The grey haired man nodded and moved back over to Mike, yanking them all into a huddle.

“‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’,” he breathed, smiling at them, “see Mike, with John we can write the truly Bohemian Revolutionary show that they’ve been wanting from us.” He was looking at Mike hopefully and Molly nodding eagerly and Anderson scrunched his nose a bit. Mike sighed and looked at him.

“But how will we convince Mycroft?” he asked worriedly. Greg smirked and looked back at John. He may have been married to the man, but only one person could get to him.

“Sherlock, of course.”

_Lestrade had a plan already worked out in his head. They would dress me in the best suit Mike owned and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Sherlock heard my modern poetry, he would be, hopefully, the least bit impressed and tell Mycroft, his older brother, that I should write "Spectacular, Spectacular." The only problem was I kept hearing my father's voice in my head . . ._

The old man was staring at him with his beady eyes and frowning disapprovingly. “ _You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!_ ” he shouted. John’s eyes widened and he shook his head, moving off the ladder as doubt flooded him What if he was no good? What if he couldn’t convince this Sherlock? “No! I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge!” he said firmly as he tried climbing down the ladder leading back to his room through the hole in the floor slash ceiling. The Bohemians followed after, and Greg leaned down over him.

“Why not?” he asked, looking at him worriedly. John looked up at them and sighed, trying to calm himself down. “I-I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian Revolutionary, or if I could even be one,” he replied quietly. The Bohemians gasped, looking stricken. “Do you believe in beauty?” the salt-and-pepper haired man asked. John nodded. “Yes.” “Freedom?” Anderson inquired half-sarcastically. John’s eyes scrunched together. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Truth?” Mike questioned. “Yes!” “Love?” Molly asked. John looked up, eyes wide as he took the four of them in.

“Love? Love, above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen,” he told them passionately, feeling his chest warm, “love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!” He was a true romantic and Greg could see that John might be just what Sherlock needed. The other Bohemians grinned and laughed, nodding to each other and John. Greg beamed at him and reached down to grab his arm, hauling him back up.

“See, you can't fool us!” he said happily, “you're to be the voice of the Children of the Revolution! You were destined to write the world's first Bohemian Revolution show!” John yelped as he was lifted out of the hole by the lot of them. He laughed nervously and felt his heart racing as he imagined himself writing shows, moving up in the world. He was to be a part of the revolution. He was going to be a true Bohemian writer!

_It was a perfect plan. I was to audition for Sherlock and I would taste my first glass of… Absinthe._

Molly fixed the drinks, pouring alcohol over the small flames resting above the small cups and into the glasses. John grabbed his and toasted, not thinking twice before downing the green beverage in one gulp with the rest of them. They’d said it wold help him relax, but he wasn’t so sure, especially now. He knew something was working on his mind when he saw the little fairy from the bottle of Absinthe fly off and whirl around them, leaving a trail of green glitter behind her.

“I'm the Green Fairy,” she giggled as she waved. John looked around and saw the rest of them waving back. At least he wasn’t the only one. They began singing, laughing and tripping over themselves as they got ready to go to the Moulin Rouge. "The hills are alive with the sound of music.” They stepped onto the balcony, singing to their hearts content, not really quite sober yet. “FREEDOM! BEAUTY! TRUTH AND LOVE!” “The hills are alive with the sound of music! Children of the revolution, of the revolution. The revolution, of the revolution,” the fairy sang, finally beginning to putter out of their imaginations as they made their way to the Moulin Rouge. The sobered up enough and headed out.

_We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, unfortunately not perfect and make mistakes and I am most certainly not the best writer out there. So, if any of you see any grammatical errors or find a place where things can be changed or might be able to be fixed in a certain way, please let me know!! I am always open to constructive criticism and ideas!!


	2. The Diamond Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter does get a bit sillier, but it’s a good silly. If you haven’t noticed already, some of the characters are a tad OoC, but I’m going to my best to try and make them fit. The Bohemians were the hardest, and Greg and Anderson the hardest of the grop. XD I hope you enjoy this chapter and don’t worry, the Holmes brothers aren’t going to be as bubbly as they seem! ;) (I unfortunately do not own either Sherlock or Moulin Rouge. All rights belong to their respectful owners!)

            John was dragged along not unwillingly into the Moulin Rouge and couldn’t find words to describe the scene booming and exploding  around him. Somewhere in the distance amongst the cat calls and shouts and the songs, he could hear Mycroft Holmes, and he just knew it was him, shouting, “The Moulin Rouge!” and singing along now and again. John turned in circles, trying to take in everything and keep up with the Greg and the others without losing his top hat. He was drunk on the bright colors and the several dancers

_Mycroft Holmes and his infamous dancers. They called them his "Diamond Dogs."_

The man’s jaw dropped as he saw the men and women walk out from behind a set of double mirrors, the ladies with their colorful skirts lifted high above their waists and the men poised to seduce, ready to take what they could find and claim it. John swallowed, eyes wide, and just barely managed to follow Greg to the side of the as the girls began their number. “ _Voulez vous coucher avec moi? Ce soir? Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, flow sister._ _Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, flow sister._ ” Greg pointed out Mycroft at the front of the dancers,. John watched him lead them across the dance floor.

            He wore a sharp, red suit and top hat, an umbrella gripped tightly in his gloved hands as he strutted along with the dancers. They worked their magic as Mycroft sang, wooing the men and few women that they could get theirs hands on. “ _When work's an awful bore and living's just a chore ... death-not much fun. I've got the antidote, and though I mustn't gloat. At the Moulin Rouge... You'll have fun!”_ The man didn’t seem like the person who would have a rather enjoyable singing voice, so when he began the song, John was quite surprised. Mycroft twirled his umbrella, grinning rather devilishly around the room. _So scratch that little niggle, Have a little wiggle!_ ” Greg grinned, watching Mycroft with bright eyes and John finally noticed the ring on his left hand.

            “ _'Cause you can, can, can!_ ” “ _Yes, you can, can, can!_ ” “ _Voulez vous coucher avec moi?_ _Ce soir?_ ” Mycroft sang and spun with surprising flexibility around the large dance hall, the performers around him dancing in perfect sync. “ _But you can't, can't, can't!_ ” “ _Yes, you can, can, can!_ ” “ _Voulez vous coucher avec moi? Ce soir?_ ” “ _But you can, can, can!_ ” Mycroft was surrounded by the dancers as they made their way out to get to the courtyard where the men were filing in, in rows, twirling their hats and strutting about.

            “ _Here we are now, entertain us!_ ” The mob of well-dressed men became uniform and began dancing towards where the women and men that stood waiting for them in front of the entrance of the Moulin Rouge. “ _We feel stupid and contagious._ ” John let himself be pushed and pulled around as he tried to mimic the dancing, unable to absorb everything that was the Moulin Rouge in those seemingly elongated minutes.

            He watched from the side, trying to be discreet with the rest of his small group, as Mycroft strutted forward and the dancers spread out. Greg smirked a bit. It wasn’t often he managed to pull the wall over his husband’s eyes, but he loved it when he did.

            “ _Got some dark desire? Love to play with fire? Why not let it rip? Live a little bit! 'Cause you can, can, can!_ ” “ _Yes, you can, can, can!_ ” “ _Here we are now, entertain us!_ ” “ _But you can't can't, can't!_ ” the crowd shouted, entranced by their performance and begging for more. “ _Voulez vous coucher avec moi? Ce soir?_ ” “ _Yes, you can, can, can!_ ” “ _If you're stupid and contagious._ ” Men and women spun around the hall, laughing and dancing, and John wondered vaguely both if he was really cut out to do this and why he hadn’t come to Paris sooner?

            “ _Outside it may be raining, but in here it's entertaining!_ ” Mycroft shouted, waving his umbrella around and making his way up to the center balcony with his umbrella now resting over his shoulder. “ _Cause you can, can, can! Cause you can, can, can!_ ” Most of the rich men now had a dancer or two in their arms, twirling around in tipsy circles as the ladies leaned on them and giggled teasingly in their ears. “ _Here we are now, entertain us!_ ” they sang, pulling them close.

            “ _Outside things may be tragic, but in here we think it's magic!_ ” the Holmes brother sang, leaning over the balcony and laughing heartily. Greg had to hold back a laugh of his own as he watched him. The makeup was one thing, but his act was a whole other story. Greg was one of the few who knew he hated this. “ _Here we are now, entertain us!_ ” Mycroft threw his arms out, bringing silence as he smiled coyly at the people filling the hall.

            “The Can-Can!” he whispered, grinning as the dancers moved across the dance floor quickly, abandoning partners and preparing for the end of the act. The crowd picked up again, singing with more vigor than before. “ _Because we can, can, can! Because we can, can, can._ ” “ _Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, flow sister!_ ” The men and women sang as they danced, spinning across the floor and showing themselves off as they pleased.

            “ _Gitchie, gitchie, ya ya da da. Gitchie, gitchie, ya ya here. Mocha Chocolata ya ya!_ ” Mycroft laughed, moving back down to be on the dance floor. “ _Because we can, can, can! Because we can, can, can!_ ” “ _Creole Lady Marmalade._ ” John was swept in amongst the dancers, beaming and following the group of Bohemians around, letting himself simply enjoy the experience.

            “Cause it’s good for your mind!” he sang, screaming just to get out all the pent up energy and adrenaline that had built up quickly. Nobody even took notice as it was lost in the music and chaos pounding against their ears. He danced and grinned, hanging onto Greg as the others held onto him, and let himself be  led to a table on the raised second floor. “ _Because we can, can, can!! Because we can, can, can, can!_ ” The five of them fell into their seats, scooting around the booth to get seated properly and looked down to the floor below. Greg leaned over the table to grin at John.             “We did it!” he said, looking down gleefully at the floor, “we successfully evaded Mycroft!” John laughed, his heart racing as he tried to calm down and mentally prepare himself for what he was going to have to do. Everything suddenly whet quiet and the lights dimmed, turning blue and moving to the ceiling. “It's him,” Greg murmured, eyeing the confetti that showered down upon the men and dancers, “Mycroft’s brother, The ‘Sparkling Diamond’!”

            John looked up and felt his breath catch and his heart stop. He couldn’t breathe as he stared at the man being lowered on a trapeze like swing. His pale, ivory skin, sparkling dully with light powder, shined and stood out under the soft blue lights. He had a small top hat sitting on his thick, curly hair and very little make up was placed around his eyes and on his lips. John could tell he most certainly didn’t need it. He wore a dark, navy colored vest and short trousers and long, skin tight, heeled leather boots. The sable fabric glittered subtly and had swirls of silver beading all along the cloth and was a stark contrast against his white skin. It looked like it practically soaked into his flesh. John was absolutely dumbstruck.

            “ _The French, are glad to die for love_ ,” he began singing softly, and John felt a shiver run down his spine as the man’s deep, rich baritone filled the large dance hall to the brim. “ _They delight, in fighting duels_ ,” he hummed, leaning back to smile down to the men below. John leaned forward, gripping his seat as he watched Sherlock Holmes. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.  
 

 _But someone else was to meet Sherlock that night.  
_  

            “ _But I prefer a man who lives…_ ” He grinned, and John knew that he knew he was the star and that everyone loved him. It didn’t matter what he did, he had everyone’s attention and he was going to wrap them all around his long, thin, glove covered fingers and tie them in knots.  
 

_Mycroft’s investor…_

   
            “ _And gives expensive…_ ,” the man cocked one leg back underneath him and the other straight out, “ _jewels_.” He breathed out the last word and swung his legs out to the side, causing the trapeze to swing out around the crowd as he was slowly lowered down with the help of a stagehand. He waved and smiled as the crowd erupted, reaching up to try and touch him, and John knew, immediately, that he was in love.  
 

            The investor, a rich duke by the name of Jim Moriarty, sat and stared in rapture at the man swinging around in the air. He had a thin, snakelike face, calculating and waiting, waiting for his chance to lunge and stake his claim. He had dark, slicked back, oily hair and beady black eyes that glittered with desire. He licked his lips, dying for a taste of the ‘Sparkling Diamond’. Mycroft sat across from him, watching his brother with a careful eye as he waited for Moriarty to speak. John watched Sherlock with longing in his blue, wishing to simply meet the man and tell him how much he loved him. Sherlock grinned as the swing was lowered to the floor and he was surrounded by bodies.

            “ _A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl's best friend_ ,” he swung for a moment, smiling as he was grabbed by the arms and lifted off the swing by the nearby dancers. He was set on the floor and began spinning around, kicking his leather clad legs into the air and simply absorbing the attention the men were showering over him. “ _A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental on your humble flat_ ,” he pointing to an older, greedy looking man who was waving handfuls of money at him and had him on his knees begging for anything just with a look, “ _or help you feed your, pussycat._ ” He smirked and popped his hip to the side and blew a kiss.

            “ _Men grow cold as girls grow old, and we all lose our charms in the end_ ,” he sang, leaning back against one man to have his cheek kissed. A young man being pushed around in the crowd had a napkin in his hands and unwrapped it to reveal a large diamond necklace. Sherlock spun around and braced his arms on a few of his fellow dancers, arching his back and rolling his eyes as the older man slapped him on the arse. He turned and raised his arms, belting out the lyrics as he was lifted on the shoulders of the surrounding dancers. The young man with the necklace had his friends lift him and Sherlock grinned hungrily, eyeing him immediately.

            “ _But square cut or pear shaped, these rocks don't lose their shapes,_ ” he reached out and snatched the necklace, clutching it close, “ _diamonds are a girl's best friend._ ” He was set back down on his feet and he practically fell against the men more than willing to catch him, holding up the necklace with a smirk.             Mycroft and Moriarty unknowingly sat in the booth right beside John and the Bohemians. Moriarty leaned over the table just a bit, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s dancing form as he swallowed heavily. The older Holmes held back the disgusted scowl that threatened to pull at his lips as the duke looked hungrily at his brother. _This is the only way,_ he thought calmly, praying this would be over and done with as quickly as possible.

            “When am I to meet him?” Moriarty asked, finally tearing his eyes away and looking at Mycroft with wide, hungry eyes. Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella under the table and gave the duke a smile, looking back to his brother as he cried out one of the dancer’s names. “ _Tiffany_!”

            “After his number, I’ve arranged a meeting with you and Monsieur Sherlock… completely alone,” he explained, all business now, and hating the hunger growing in Moriarty’s black eyes. He tried to shut it down, block out the brotherly affection, they needed this for the Moulin Rouge. “ _Cartier_!” Sherlock gasped and giggled as he was lifted up down throughout the crowd. Mycroft and Greg both had to hold back looks at Sherlock’s façade. The duke smiled wide and Mycroft contained a shudder at the man’s unusually sharp teeth. Just on the other side of the wall, Greg was smirking at John’s wide eyes and slack jaw. Sherlock was set down again and spun around, glaring affrontedly at the bouquet of roses being presented and smacked them out of the man’s hands.

            “After his number, you and Sherlock will have a private meeting, just you and him, _alone_ ,” he told him, grinning as he sipped at the drink set in front of him. John looked at him, wonder and fear clear on his face. “Alone?” he asked, ignoring the slight crack in his voice as he swallowed thickly. Greg chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder. “He doesn’t bite much,” he replied as Mycroft took a deep breath and looked at Moriarty slowly.

            “Totally alone.” They all watched as Sherlock jumped forward, tackling some poor man to the ground, though he didn’t seem to care too much, and pressed his front as close as he could to the other. “ _Cause we are living in a material world,_ ” he sang sensually, breathing right in the man’s face before straightening and pressing his knee to his chest, “ _and I am a material girl!_ ” One of the back-up singers kissed the air and Sherlock grinned brilliantly as he turned on his heel as strutted away.

            “Come and get me boys,” he called, throwing his head back as the men surrounded him and lifted him easily straight into the air. John’s eyes widened as he let out a surprised breath. Mycroft looked at the duke and smiled apologetically as Sherlock leaned back and let himself be carried across the sea of hands on his back. “Excuse me,” he said, noticing how Moriarty barely gave him a second glance, and hurried off to join his brother on stage. Sherlock yawned showily, simply basking in the attention as he stretched out on the men’s hands as Mycroft made his way to the stage, dancing along in time with the beat.

            “Black star, Rozz call, talk to me Mycroft Holmes, tell me all about it!” Sherlock shouted as he was set on the edge of the stage and walked up to the center. Mycroft leapt up and leaned on his umbrella as he smirked lazily at Sherlock. John turned to Greg as the man began laughing and he wondered what was so funny. The younger Holmes held back a snort and rested his hands on his hips. “ _There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer_ ,” he sang, leaning against his brother’s side and looking pleased about it. “ _But diamonds are a girl's best friend_ ,” Mycroft replied gruffly, holding up a diamond studded belt to tease his brother. Sherlock looked excited and made a playful grab for it. He strutted forward, arms above his head before he leaned back against his brother’s chest, swallowing back bile. Brotherly contact was definitely not something he enjoyed. “ _There may come a time when a hot-boiled employer think's you're,_ ” “ _Awful nice,_ ” the two sang and Sherlock pulled away as quickly as he could.

            John felt his pulse racing, and he stood up, feeling slightly nauseous at the thought of actually meeting Sherlock and telling him about the play after he was finished. He was… fantastic and John felt he was going to faint. Greg seemed to be reading his mind as he stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry mate, don't worry,” he said calmly, smiling and moving to walk down the narrow aisle, “I'll go and get things ready.” He waved his hand, nodding as John sat back down, and accidently knocked a tray of glasses out of servers hand and right onto Moriarty’s lap, who cried in outrage.

            Sherlock stood back to back with Mycroft on stage, shaking a loose bow tie around as his brother held up the long, diamond studded belt. He smiled prettily at the crowd and glanced black at his brother. “Is Moriarty here Mycroft?” he asked just loudly enough to be heard by the older. “Naturally, I wouldn’t let you down on such an important account,” Mycroft replied with a feigned smile, glancing over the shorter’s shoulder as they moved in circles. He groaned internally and saw Greg rubbing at Moriarty’s shirt front with a handkerchief, apologizing profusely. How had the bloody idiot gotten in here?

            “Where is he?” Sherlock asked, prancing around his brother, hands clasped in front of him. Mycroft looked again to double check and nodded. “He’s the one Gregory is shaking a pocket hanky at,” he replied, leaning back and nodding at Sherlock. The younger turned, spinning on his toe with Mycroft’s beloved umbrella in his hands. Lestrade let go of the handkerchief in Moriarty’s hand, praying to get away from his piercing, furious gaze for a moment, and moved around to get to John.

            “Excuse me John, can I borrow this for a moment?” he asked, tugging the hanky out of his inside coat pocket and shaking the wrinkles out of it. John nodded, his gaze flicking between Sherlock and Greg, before he noticed the dark haired man looking at him. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, taking in the blonde man who Lestrade was waving the cloth at. _At least he decent looking enough_ , he thought lightly as he kept dancing. He didn’t really look like he had the pompous air of aristocracy.

            “Are you sure?” he asked Mycroft, turning and looking at him with a raised eyebrow. The older gave him a look that said hang on and he ducked down, holding onto his brother’s waist and looked at the booth. Lestrade quickly moved back to Moriarty and began trying to dry him off once more. The man jumped out of his seat, trying to shoo Greg away as he wiped uselessly at his clothes.

            “I'm so sorry,” he said, looking apologetically at the dark haired man as he huffed in exasperation, swatting at him in an attempt to get him to leave. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he growled, trying to push him away. Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes, moving back to hold up the belt. “That's the one brother mine,” he said as Sherlock swayed his hips and blew kisses to the crowd, holding the belt out for the younger. “I hope that ridiculous my fool hasn't frightened him off,” he muttered as Sherlock smiled and took the belt, moving to the side so the man had center stage.

            Greg, finally fed up with the duke fussing, threw the handkerchief at him. “Alright, have it your way!!” he said, crossing his arms and pursing his lips. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped when a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned, ready to snap at them too, but saw a man with a long scar running over one eye and a gun flipped out from the inside of his coat. “Ohh, sorry mate. Really sorry.” He swallowed nervously and hurried back to his own seat.

            Sherlock, grinning rather maniacally, pulled Mycroft back and they dropped down below the wall of lifted skirts to block them from view. Sherlock immediately dropped the cheery façade and groaned as he began to change. “God this is tedious,” he muttered, tossing away his hat and quickly unbuttoning the vest. Mycroft nodded and started changing into his own simple outfit. “Yes, well, we don’t have much choice,” he said, eyeing Sherlock. The younger huffed annoyedly and rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t remind me,” he said, tugging off the loose trousers and boots and began shimming into a pair of tight leather ones, “this place is your life.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock smirked.

            “So will he invest?” he asked, buttoning the trousers and clipping on the suspenders he was handed, only needing a little help crossing them in the back and slipped them over his bare torso. Mycroft snorted and Sherlock gave him a rare grin. “After a night with you brother, he won’t be able to say no,” he replied coolly as he pulled on a white vest and jacket. He felt his heart tug only the slightest bit the way his brother beamed with pride at that statement.

            “So, what’s his _type_?” he asked a touch sarcastically as he clipped the diamond belt around his waist so it hung loosely on his thin, rather bony hips. “Self-esteem issues?” he whimpered rather pathetically. “With the performance you just put on?” his brother replied with raised eyebrows. “Sunshine and rainbows?” He put on a bright smile and Mycroft almost choked on a laugh. “Hard and rough?” His brother smirked at the smolder he was given and nodded, watching him pull on a pair of ridiculous heels.

            “Hard and rough. Be careful with this one Sherlock, he seems … off.” “Mycroft, most of the people who come in here are off,” Sherlock replied, ignoring everyone outside, cheering and shouting, as he checked his reflection quickly in a small mirror. “I’m serious Sherlock,” he said, pursing his lips as the younger ruffled his dark hair, “just remember brother, you can get out of here if we get this. A real life, a real future…” he trailed off, his eyes softening ever so slightly. “A real person,” Sherlock finished quietly, a rare glimpse of longing swimming in his eyes. Mycroft hated seeing his brother look like that.

            He shook it off quickly and jumped up as the girls surrounding them dropped their skirts. He was grinning again with his hands thrown in the air. “ _Cause that's when those louses go back to their spouses_ ,” he sang, moving to sit on the shoulders of the dancers. He saw Greg near the front of the crowd and rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing here, but he wondered if he’s had to sneak by Mycroft. They moved him across the floor quickly, right to where John was sitting. “ _Diamonds are a girl's best friend!_ ” John looked away from Molly and back to the dance floor. Only, he wasn’t seeing the dance floor anymore. The twinkling diamond belt he’d seen Mycroft give Sherlock was staring him in the face and he slowly looked up to see Sherlock Holmes smirking at him.

            “I believe you were expecting me,” he purred, leaning against the edge of the column beside him and hovered close to the blonde. John nodded slowly, swallowing as he looked for words.

            “Yes,” he finally breathed, “yes.” Sherlock grinned and turned towards the crowd, hands raised above him as he addressed them. “I'm afraid it's gentleman’s choice,” he told them in that seductively rick, velvety voice, turning and pointing to John, ignoring their saddened cries. John looked between Sherlock and the Bohemians. Anderson rolled his eyes as Molly grinned, gesturing to Sherlock.

            The curly haired man looked curiously at John for a moment, not noticing anything too out of the ordinary, before remembering his act. He pouted, pretending to be upset that John hadn’t immediately accepted his offer as he turned back to the crowd. He laughed and grinned at them, shaking his hips a bit as he moved backwards, deliberately showing off for John. The doctor’s eyes went wide and he swallowed nervously. Greg came up quickly and began shouting at Sherlock to be heard.

            “I see you've already met our English friend,” he said to Sherlock, nodding to John. The brunette rolled his eyes, holding back a sigh. “If that isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. I’ll take care of it Lestrade,” he said, shooing him off and turning, holding his hand out to John, who took it without question. “Let's dance!” he told him, grinning. He pulled John to his feet and to the dance floor. He spun around, completely in his element, but John stood back, not quite sure of what to do until two other men pushed him forward.

            “Don’t be nervous,” Sherlock murmured, able to sense the man’s anxiety. He came up and pulled him into the throng of dancing bodies. It was… cute, almost. John moved back and forth a bit, trying to find the beat of the music while Sherlock simply danced in circles around him. The four Bohemians watched with stunned eyes. “That was easier than I thought it would be,” Greg said, sitting back down with the others. “That’s amazing,” Molly mumbled as she watched them. He better not screw this up,” Anderson said, leaning over to watch with them. “Oh he’s fine,” Greg replied, smiling at them, “he’s brilliant.”

            The dancers spun and slid across the floor. Sherlock swayed his hips and pressed close to John’s front. He slid down, running his hands along the man’s sides and legs before jumping back up. John shuddered and watched the way Sherlock’s eyes danced mischievously and finally managed to start dancing with the beat, keeping up with the dark haired minx. His eyes had John transfixed. The continually changed color and glittered with excitement as he moved. He was enjoying himself, teasing the shorter and John couldn’t help but grin.

            Mycroft had moved back to the side and was watching the dance floor from a crack in one of the many doorways as Sherlock danced with who he assumed was Moriarty. “At least the man can dance,” he muttered as he was helped back into his suit jacket, “Sherlock won’t be completely opposed now.” He moved a bit and looked up to where his husband was and smiled fondly. He was a pain in the arse, but he did love him.

            “It’s wonderful of you to take have taken an interest in our little show,” Sherlock said, smiling endearingly at John as he led him across the floor. John nodded and kept a hand on the man’s back as they moved around. “It sounds very exciting,” he said as Sherlock spun in front of him, “I'd be absolutely delighted to be involved. “ Sherlock’s eyes widened in genuine surprise and he smiled. “Really?” he asked, shimmying up John’s chest and gripping his shoulders. John smiled and nodded happily, spinning with the rest of men.

            “Assuming you like what I do of course,” he replied, bending and tipping his hat to the Bohemians watching with a grin. Sherlock blinked in surprise and tried to put a smile back on his lips. “I'm sure I will,” he replied, really quite unsure of how to answer that and he was never lost for words. They spun around and Sherlock pressed close to John, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulder as the doctor dipped him. “Greg though we might be able to, er… do it in private,” he replied. Sherlock’s eyebrows raised and his mouth dropped slightly. Christ, the man was always sticking his nose where it wasn’t needed.

            “Did he?” he questioned, just the slightest bit taken aback by all the forwardness, and that usually didn’t bother him at all. John nodded nervously as Sherlock leaned back and swung around before pressing against the man. Sherlock watched him curiously. His words were so straightforward, but he seemed so nervous. Mycroft’s words made no sense.

 **“** Yes, you know, l-like a private... poetry reading,” he replied, just trying to keep a hold on the man. Sherlock suddenly understood and he grinned. “Oh,” he hummed, squeezing John’s shoulders and dipping back again, “a poetry reading! Mmm, I love a bit poetry after supper!” He winked and chuckled softly, not seeing what Mycroft had been talking about. He laughed and danced, not really minding as he twirled with John. He enjoyed it even. Everyone had someone and Sherlock and John were at the center of his all. The taller waited until the right beat came along and shouted with all his might. “Hang on to your hats!” he called, kicking a leg into the air and laughing as everyone threw their top hats into the air.

            He said goodbye to John, promising to see him later, and found his way back to the trapeze. He sat down and hung on tight to the brightly colored ropes as he was lifted into the air, legs crossed as he sang. Adrenaline was pumping through his system and he was ready to get the evening on with. “ _Diamonds_ ,” he sang, his beautiful voice filling the hall once again, “ _diamonds. Square cut or pear shaped, these rocks won’t lose their shape!_ ” Everyone had gathered underneath him, forming circles and grasping hands, lifting them into the air and swaying back and forth, his group of fellow dancers closest to him standing underneath him. Mycroft was watching his brother with just the smallest amount of pride, grinning with everyone else with his arms lifted towards Sherlock. John was seated back with the Bohemians and they were clapping him on the back and laughing as the poet watched Sherlock with a rather dumbstruck expression.

            “ _Diamonds are a girl’s best…_ ” Sherlock leaned back, preparing to belt out the last word, but took a raspy, shuddering breath instead as his silver eyes widened and pain gripped his chest and choked off his air. The crowd below him had their hands raised in suspenseful silence, ready for the finale and completely unaware as to what was happening above them. Mycroft’s smile had vanished and his eyebrows were scrunched as he watched his brother stiffen. Sherlock couldn’t do anything except manage one more pained, shallow breath before the darkness swallowed him and the only thing he felt was himself falling backwards before losing consciousness.

            “Nooo!!” Mycroft cried, eyes wide as he realized what was happening and watched his brother fall. His heart stopped for a moment before he saw the man’s thin form caught by one of the larger dancers, Angelo. It was deathly silent as people stared with confused and worried eyes. John watched in horror as Sherlock fell. It felt like he was seeing him tip backwards in slow motion. He felt relief wash over him as he was caught, and realized just how terrified he’d been for a man who he barely even knew. Angelo looked up at Mycroft, unsure of what to do, and the elder brother gestured as subtly as he could to him, telling him to just hurry and get off the main floor. The man moved quickly through the crowd of men as fast as could, trying to be as gentle as possible as he moved them out of the spotlight.

            “Ahhh!!!” Mycroft suddenly cried exuberantly, clapping, trying to fight off the fear gripping his insides, and make the crowd believe it had just been part of the act. The men began shouting and cheering, going along without asking questions. Mycroft watched worriedly from the corner of his eye as his baby brother was carried off. “Sher-Lock! Sher-Lock! Sher-Lock!” he chanted, getting the crowd to follow. He couldn’t feel like this. Sherlock was handing himself to the Duke for them. Mycroft couldn’t let his brother affection get in the way. Caring wasn’t an advantage.

            Angelo carried the man out down a side hall, following one of the dwarf dancers and moving through the dancers who stood in the back dressing rooms. They all watched, most worried over their fellow performer, one girl with frizzy brown hair and light brown skin smirked as the limp body passed her however. “Doesn't look like that duke's gonna get his money's worth tonight with the freak,” she snorted, watching Angelo go. The girl beside her nudged her and frowned. “Don’t be that way Sally.” Sally chuckled and hurried back to the dance hall. Angelo hurried to the far back and laid Sherlock down gently, turning his head to keep him from being too uncomfortable when he woke.

            Mycroft still stood on the balcony, conducting the men who were shouting for Sherlock. He was looking worriedly towards the hall, praying the man was alright despite his befuddling thoughts. He looked down into the chanting crowd and saw the stage manager slicing his arms through the air, telling him to get them to stop. Mycroft swallowed and stood up straight, silencing the men with a flick of his arms.

            “You frightened him away,” he said, pouting through his worry. The men sighed, crying out with despair, “but I can see some lonely Moulin Rouge dancers looking for a partner or two,” he said, swinging his arm around to the edges of the hall, “So if you can hunk-hunk, you can Hunkadola with them!!” He turned to the band and got them to start up the music. Everyone began dancing and Mycroft swallowed, forcing himself to stay just a bit longer to make sure everyone was entertained.

            An older looking woman with her hair pulled back pushed past the few dancers standing and looking worriedly at Sherlock a little more roughly than usual. “Out of my way!” she cried, moving and kneeling next to Sherlock’s unconscious form. A thin layer of sweat covered his forehead and his pale cheeks were flushed pink. Even though he was out cold he was breathing a little heavier than usual. She popped open a small vial of smelling salts and held it under the man’s nose, watching as he came around almost instantly. His eyes flew open and he tried to jump up, but was pushed back onto the small couch. He looked around, finally realizing where he was at.

            “Oh,” he breathed, taking deep gulps of air and calming down slightly, “Mrs. Hudson.” He smiled shakily up at the lady and rested back on the pillows. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said softly, like the name in itself would make everything better, and looked towards her for reassurance as he tried to breathe normally. She smiled, sighing quietly as she watched him move around, and brushed away a lock of dark hair from his forehead. “Must not have done those breathing exercises right,” he mumbled, swallowing thickly.

            “It’s probably just a little fainting spell, you’ll be alright in no time,” she reassured him gently. She looked back with a sharp glare as yelling and thumping came from behind her. “All right, you girls,” the stage manager shouted as he pushed then towards the dance hall, “get back out there and make those gents thirsty!” He shoved them all out, walking up behind Mrs. Hudson to look at Sherlock over her shoulder. “Problem?” he asked curtly.

            “Nothing for you to worry about,” she replied, jerking her head, telling him to leave. He narrowed his eyes slightly and barked at the few remaining dancers, including Angelo, before walking off. “Let's just not stand around then, come on! Go!” Angelo gave one last worried glance over his shoulder as Sherlock began coughing but moved onto the dance floor. Mrs. Hudson ran a gentle hand through Sherlock’s hair and held a tissue to his mouth as he coughed violently. She watched him worriedly as he curled in on himself slightly, closing his eyes to rest for a moment. She looked down at the handkerchief and her eyes widened when she saw a small bit of blood. She shook her head and simply leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the man’s temple, not knowing what more to do to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The offer still stand to help me out!! I would be ecstatic if you had any ideas on how to make this better or just see a grammatical areas that need to be fixed! Thank you! :D


	3. Your Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s a bit longer than the others and would’ve been a lot longer if I hadn’t of broken it up here, so this is where I’ll cut it and put more up soon. This was soooo hard! I hope Moriarty isn’t too OoC! Please lemme know whatcha think! (I do not own either Sherlock or Moulin Rouge. All rights belong to their respectful owners!)

            The men and women danced as the men watched from their tables, entertaining them and their violent, carnal needs. They spun and sang and the little incident with Sherlock was forgotten. Well, mostly forgotten. Moriarty was up and about, quite desperate to find Mycroft and get his time alone with Sherlock. He was ready to sink his fangs into him. He finally grabbed Sebastian’s arm and spun him around, pulling him down so their noses were touching. “Find me Mycroft,” he all but growled, his hair messing up just the slightest, “Sherlock is waiting for me.” Moran nodded and ran off, leaving a hungry and needy Moriarty behind.

            Sherlock stood in front a small mirror somewhere backstage, allowing Mrs. Hudson to do up the buttons on the tight, bright red vest he was wearing. She smiled at him as he looked at the skull he kept on his shelf with a bored expression, scrunching his nose slightly at the constriction of the vest. His chest already felt uncomfortably tight. “That Moriarty fellow seemed awfully taken with you,” she said, handing him his long, black gloves, “with someone like him giving you a paycheck, I bet you could become a detective,” she said. Sherlock turned away from his skull and grinned at her and she ruffled his hair.

            “My deducing skills aren’t what they once were.” Mrs. Hudson simply gave him a look and he smiled. “You really think I could do something great?” he asked, pulling the gloves on with ease and stretching his fingers. Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted his cheek. “You have brilliant head on your shoulders love. You can do anything you set your mind too.” Sherlock beamed and hugged the woman, the only mother-like figure he’d ever had. “I’m going to get out of here,” he said as he pulled back, “I’m going to fly away from here, far away and actually be something!” Mrs. Hudson nodded her approval and looked at Mycroft came running towards them, nearly tripping in the process.

            “Sherlock?! Are you alright?” he asked, holding a hand to his chest as he caught his breath. The younger rolled his eyes but nodded, looking at his brother through the mirror. “I’m fine Mycroft,” he replied with wave of his hand, “Greg would be grinning like a buffoon at the sentiment you’re showing.” The older narrowed his eyes but nodded and let it go. “I suppose it’s good that you’re fine now,” he muttered, eyeing Sherlock. He did chuckle a bit as he leaned against a spare prop. “You certainly worked your magic with Moriarty on the dance floor.” Sherlock grinned and shrugged innocently.

            “What can I say? I’m good.” He turned, leaning seductively against his vanity. He wore long, jet black trousers and a crimson colored vest with nothing but a pair of devilish, leather gloves. “Do I absolutely scream hard and rough?” Mycroft laughed and walked forward, shaking his head at his brother. “He’s absolutely mad if he doesn’t just drop dead the moment he sees you,” he replied. He shared a smile with Sherlock and ruffled his brother’s hair. “Who knew everything could work out this well?”

 

            The group of Bohemians stood outside; staring up at the elephant where they knew John was with Sherlock. “I can’t believe it,” Greg said, swirling his drink around, “straight to the elephant!” He knew Mycroft might be pissy later for getting the young man all up in fits and distracted, but it would be alright.

            Sherlock’s room was spacious and luxurious. It was themed with mainly gold fabric with hints of red and black. It was placed high above and to the side in the courtyard of the Moulin Rouge. The outside was shaped like that of a large, magnificent elephant and it was no doubt who lived there. John stood at the end of the room looking out of the wide opening facing towards the front of the Moulin Rouge. He held his hat behind him, spinning it in his fingers nervously as he waited for Sherlock to change.

            “This is the perfect place for a poetry reading don't you think?” Sherlock’s velvety voice rumbled from behind him. He turned and saw the man sauntering towards him and felt his mouth go incredibly dry, his eyes widening as he looked him up and down for a moment. Sherlock wore nothing on his feet; he was bare up until his thighs where black, silk boxers met pale, creamy, alabaster skin. He wore a tight, purple shirt, almost completely open in the front save for the bottom two buttons. An undone bowtie lay around the neck. The man wore no makeup safe for a light coat of red on his lips. His hair was curly and had a just sexed sort of look to it. Sherlock barely contained a victorious smirk and raised a seductive eyebrow at the shorter. “Is this… poetic enough for you?” he breathed, his voice flooding the older’s system and shutting it down momentarily. John was speechless for a minute before managing to answer.

            “Yes,” John whispered, nodding a bit. The Bohemians were outside the elephant, climbing up to the top, save for Greg, humming softly to themselves. The ringleader was moving to his husband’s private bedroom, hoping to talk before they left. Sherlock smiled and swaggered over to a little ornate table with fruit and a bottle of champagne sitting on it.

            “Would you like some supper?” he asked, turning his back to the poet and grabbing the bottle from the ice. He wasn’t hungry, as usual, but he figured he could try his best to be polite. “Maybe some champagne?” John swallowed and walked forward a bit, holding onto his hat tightly. “I'd rather just, um…” he paused, watching the dancer’s easy movements as he poured a glass of the bubbly liquid, “get it over and done with.” He didn’t mean to sound rude, but he was nervous and wasn’t really too sure what was coming out of his mouth. Sherlock’s eyelid twitched and he set the bottle of champagne back rather forcefully in the ice and John winced. “Sorry.”

            “Ah, I see,” he replied, ignoring John’s last words, swallowing and gaining his composure quickly before setting the glass down with a clatter onto the table. Perhaps his brother had been right. He wasn’t off, just a right arse. He turned, a forced coy smirk on his lips. He strutted over to his large bed and lay down, stretching out on his side. John’s eyebrows scrunched together, thoroughly confused by the man’s action. “Well then, why don't you come down here,” he said lowly, voice dropping close to an octave, eyeing John through his thick lashes, “and we'll get it over and done with.” He undid the last two buttons of his shirt and felt a bit of victory as he saw the way the doctor’s pupils dilated.

            “I prefer to do it standing,” John managed, swallowing nervously and stepping forward as the words stumbled over his tongue. Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and his opened his mouth in surprise. How the bloody hell was that supposed to mean? “Oh, alright then,” he said, moving to get off the bed to appease the man’s insane wants. John shook his head quickly. “Oh, you don’t have to stand. It can be quite long sometimes,” he explained, and Sherlock swallowed in shock, “a-and I’d like you to be comfortable,” he continued quickly, giving the dark haired man a small smile. “It's quite modern what I do and it may feel a little strange at first but – but I think if you're open then… then you might enjoy it.” He finished in a rush and looked at Sherlock worriedly. The man’s beautiful, silvery eyes were wide and he had a very unsure look on his face but he nodded anyway.

**“** I'm sure I’ll love it,” he replied in a raspy voice, giving a rather unconvincing smile. John nodded and held up a hand. “Just a moment,” he mumbled and moved so he was standing in front of Sherlock, but had his back turned slightly towards him. He gripped his hat in his hands and took a deep breath before he turned. “The sky is –” he began, only to be interrupted as Sherlock moaned, running a hand jerkily up his thigh. “Uh… blue…” He turned around again, swallowing and shaking his head.

            “Oh come on,” he muttered, blowing a soft raspberry and ignoring the growing pressure in his trousers, “come on.” He took another deep breath and turned, holding his arm out, trying to be dramatic and poetic. “I think...” he trailed off, seeing Sherlock spread out on his back on the yellow and black bedspread and moaning wantonly, begging to be taken and John was ready to do whatever he asked. He muttered something incoherently, shaking his head as his blood began flowing south and quickly turned back around. Sherlock huffed and sat up, raising an eyebrow at the distracted poet as he mumbled complete nonsense to himself.

            “Um, is everything perfectly alright?” he asked, trying his hardest not to be sarcastic as he scooted forward and planted his feet firmly on the floor. John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. “I just ah… I’m a bit nervous is all. Sometimes it takes a while…,” he looked down at his hat, his thoughts bouncing around so much he could hardly come up with a coherent answer. Sherlock’s eyes widened however, as he ‘realized’ what the man was talking about.

            “Ohhh,” he breathed, glancing over John once and standing up. The shorter shrugged and looked at Sherlock. “For you know,” he sighed, shrugging, “inspiration to come.” Sherlock groaned internally at his luck but put on sympathetic façade as he walked up to him. “Oh yes, yes, yes,” he replied soothingly, running his hands over the strong arms, “it’s alright, let daddy help, hmm?” He pressed close and cupped the man’s groin. John breathed in sharply, his eyes widening as Sherlock stared him down with his smouldering slivery eyes. “Does that inspire you?” he asked, his voice low and husky. He grinned at John and gripped him by his shoulder and waist. He spun them and tossed John back onto his bed, finally fed up with all the waiting. “Let's make love!”

            The Bohemians were dangling over the edge of the elephant near a small window, trying to see how things were going. Greg’s head poked just over the edge of the opening and his eyes widened as he realized what was going on under Greg’s orders. Mike’s head poked just over the edge of the opening and his eyes widened as he realized what was going on. He quickly covered them, not wanting to see more than he had to.

            Greg had made it up to his husband’s room and smiled as he saw him pacing. “Hello you,” he murmured and Mycroft jumped as he turned. He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. Greg managed to look sheepish.

            “And just what do you think you’re doing here?” he inquired, walking and pressing his chest just so against the shorter’s.

            “I wanted to see you of course,” Greg replied with a slight smirk, knowing he could yet tell him of their plans.

            “As if,” Mycroft snorted, “you nearly messed this up Gregory.” The man wasn’t sure what he’d done, but he shrugged anyway. He could probably stop messing things up if he was told occasionally what was going on.

            “I know love. I’m sorry,” he murmured, tentatively putting his arms around his husband’s waist. Mycroft rolled his eyes and leaned into the touch. God he was exhausted.

            “Go on, before I ban you for a month,” he said with a small smile, “I have places to be and guests to look after.” The older chuckled and kissed his cheek before letting go and heading out. Mycroft watched the man affectionately before he followed suit to find Moriarty.

 

            “Make love?” John asked incredulously, eyebrows scrunched and eyes wide. Sherlock practically pounced on him, straddling his waist. He gave in to the temptation and rolled his eyes, undoing the bowtie around John’s neck and snatching it off. “Well you want to, don't you?” he asked, eyebrows raised as he unbuttoned the top buttons of the man’s shirt and ran his cool fingers over his chest. John’s brain was scrambling to find an answer as Sherlock’s fingers made their way to the doctor’s trousers making him shudder. “I-I… I came to –”

            “Oh do tell the truth,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning his trousers and tugging his shirt from the waistband. “Come on, feel the _poetry_ ,” he drawled, dragging his fingers up and over his stomach appreciatively, enjoying the warm muscle he found, “come on, _feel_ it.” He moved and undid the man’s trousers, making John groan as his hands brushed against his hardening cock. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he was appreciatively surprised as he looked John over, making the older blush slightly. Mike looked out from behind his hands at the wrong moment and flushed red as he looked up at his fellow Bohemians.

**“** He's got a huge talent!” he called up and Molly nearly lost her grip as she blushed a very bright shade of pink and Anderson blanched. Greg was making his way back to the courtyard, eyes widening at the group dangling by their legs. Sherlock pointedly ignored the people hanging over his elephant; honestly not caring and knowing John wouldn’t notice. Instead, he focused his energy on keeping up the act for his dear duke. “I need your poetry. I need it now!” John swallowed and nodded, forcing himself to push Sherlock off of him and onto the other side of the bed. “Yes, alright!” He practically fell off the bed and Sherlock almost screamed in irritation at the man’s obvious lack of common sense as he flopped onto his stomach.

            “It's a little bit funny,” John stammered as he quickly stumbled to his feet and turned to face the other, cheeks flushed and hair tousled as he tried to fixing his clothes. Sherlock’s eyes were ablaze with barely restrained anger and he growled in exasperation, pushing the curls that had flopped into his face back. “What?” “This f-feeling in-inside,” he continued, the words coming a little easier now, “I'm not one of those who can…who can easily hide,” he paused and looked at Sherlock, swallowing nervously, “is this – is this okay? Is this what you want?” he questioned softly, not wanting to get the man anymore upset than he already looked. The brunette’s silvery blue eyes widened and he prayed that he finally understood what John was going for.

            “ _Poetry_ ,” he breathed, letting a tired smile grace his lips when the man nodded. _Of course he means literal_ poetry. _Christ, I really am losing my touch_. “Mmm, yes. Yes, yes this is what I want,” he replied, his words smooth and sultry, “naughty words.” He cringed internally at his own terminology, but figured he ought to put it simply for his duke’s benefit. He rolled onto his back and made a show of moaning and running his hands over himself. God, he absolutely hated making a fool of himself for someone else’s expense. John’s nose scrunched a bit as he watched the provocative display but continued on.

            “I… I don't have much money, but, boy if I did I'd buy us a big house where we both could live,” he said, swallowing unsurely as the young man became ardent in his actions. John spoke over him though, determined to see this through. “If I were a sculptor, but then again no.” He watched, jaw agape as Sherlock slid, surprisingly ungracefully to the floor. The man moaned, and John watched as the man’s movements and sounds became more erotic and impassioned, tossing himself a bot on the floor. “Or a man who makes potions for a traveling show.”

            “Oh don't!” Sherlock pleaded when John paused, not trying very hard to keep the rather sarcastic disgust from his voice, “don't… don't stop!!” John nodded and almost grimaced as the dark haired man began crying out and writhing in apparent pleasure. He blinked and shook his head at the red blanket that he wrapped around him. **“** I know it's not much,” he turned slightly, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye, “but it's the best I can do.” Sherlock continued to beg and moan behind him and John had finally had just about enough of this ridiculous nonsense.

            “ _My gift is my song_.” The Bohemian’s sat atop the elephants head toasting each other when they heard the beginning of the song. Greg was just climbing up and he nearly fell off when he heard John. They could’ve sworn all the lights in Paris lit up as John’s beautiful voice filled the air. The words were strong, clear, and perfect and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard anything more wonderful than those five words coming from between John’s lips. He sat up slowly, his eyes wide as the red, furry dulvet he’d grabbed slipped off his shoulders.

            “ _And this one's for you. And you can tell everybody that this is your song_ ,” John continued, turning and looking at Sherlock curiously. The rucks had stopped so suddenly and he was a bit surprised and extremely proud of the stunned look on the man’s face. “ _It may be quite simple but now that it's done... I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind… that I put down in words… how wonderful life is now you're in the world._ ” Sherlock felt his heart stuttering and jumping in his chest as he stared straight at John. He found it difficult to breathe all of the sudden and yet he had no idea why. His lips were parted in slight confusion and utter amazement as John smiled at him. The small, happy smile sent warmth flooding through his chest and he felt lightheaded. He wondered why he’d ever disliked the man in the first place. The older turned and looked back out the opening and Sherlock craned his neck, suddenly extremely curious as to what would come out of his mouth next.

            “ _Sat on the roof and I kicked off the moss_ ,” he sang, grinning as he watched the world outside. He’d taken center stage, and his nerves were solid now. He could do whatever he wanted now. Sherlock stood up behind him, walking towards him slowly. “ _Well, some of these verses, well, they, they got me quite cross_ ,” he chuckled, turning to look at the brunette. “ _But the sun's been kind while I wrote this song_.” Sherlock felt absolutely stunned and still a little unsure, but managed to give John a curious smile. The doctor chuckled and nodded, walking towards him.

            “ _It's for people like you that keep it turned on_ ,” he sang, laughing softly at the raised eyebrow he was given. “ _So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do, you see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue_ ,” he continued as they walked around one another, and Sherlock smiled, really, truly smiled for what felt like the first time in ages, as he stopped in front of him. “ _Anyway the thing is, what I really mean..._ ” he paused, reaching down to grab Sherlock’s hand and squeeze his fingers. The younger returned the light pressure as John watched his hand and the blonde felt he could fly as Sherlock grinned at him.

            “ _Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen_.” He beamed as he looked up at Sherlock and wrapped an arm his waist, pulling him into a quick spin. The brunette chuckled and leaned his head back, twirling along with him. One minute they were inside Sherlock’s room and the next it seemed they were dancing atop Paris.

            John held the man close under the umbrella he had, keeping the glitter from raining down on them. He jumped from one building to another and spun, making Sherlock grin against his will as he watched the silliness. He wondered, maybe he could… just possibly… fall for him.. The older walked over to the Eiffel Tower and climbed up, tossing the little umbrella up and into the air.

            The Bohemians sat on Sherlock’s elephant, grinning and drinking to their hearts content. Greg smiled, watching them contentedly. He knew Mycroft would be happy his brother had finally found someone. “ _Well you can tell everybody that this is your song, it may be quite simple but now that it's done_.” He hopped down and Sherlock slid from the rooftop of one of the hotels and spun around in the other’s direction, landing in John’s waiting arms. “ _Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is now you're in the world_.” John absolutely adored the smile that pulled at Sherlock’s lips and held tight to his hand as he spun them around in a tight circle.

            “ _Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words_ ,” he sang, leaning down and wrapping his arms under his knees, picking Sherlock up. The younger didn’t even care as he leaned into the warm, solidness of John, not even trying to hide his smile anymore. This… this was for him… nobody had ever cared about him like this. Mycroft had never told him… that it was possible for someone to love him like this. So wholehearted and so totally. Not just… for his body or the love that he could give them. Nobody had noticed him like this, especially not someone of this man’s status. “ _How wonderful life is now you're in the world!_ ”

            Greg laughed and cheered with the rest of the Bohemians crying out, “looks like he's got the job!” Paris faded out and they were back in Sherlock’s room, Greg dangling over the edge to watch them now. John slowed their spinning and lowered Sherlock’s feet to the floor, dipping him as the brunette wrapped his arms around his back. Sherlock looked stunned and breathless and he had never felt like this ever in his whole life. His heart was fluttering madly in his chest and he felt his stomach flipping pleasantly as he watched John’s eyes watch him.

            “I’m rather shocked,” he murmured quietly, brushing his nose lightly against John’s, “I’ve… this is something completely new to me, but I believe that… I’m in love,” he breathed, smiling widely at John as the shorter’s heart jumped happily in his chest. “I honestly cannot fathom how I’ve fallen in love with a young, handsome talented Duke.” John had been grinning the whole time, slowly closing the distance between their lips, when Sherlock’s quiet declaration made him pause.

            “Duke?” he asked, still smiling softly through his puzzlement. Sherlock shrugged, leaning his head back contentedly and beaming at the ceiling. “Oh the title doesn’t matter of course,” he replied, leaning in to kiss John. The poet chuckled quietly and blinked at him as he leaned in as well. “I'm not a Duke,” he breathed, and knew he’d said the wrong thing when Sherlock stiffened and pulled back, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Not a Duke?” he questioned, moving his hands to grip John’s upper arms almost painfully.

**“** I'm a writer,” he replied, smiling weakly. Sherlock’s smile fell and he was staring at John in shock and outrage. “A writer?!” he cried, forcing them back to their feet. John nodded and Sherlock stood and pulled away. “No!” John groaned internally and winced, shrugging a bit. “Well, Greg said-”

            “Lestrade!?” he shouted, looking and glaring at the man dangling over his room. “God no, please tell me you aren’t another of Lestrade’s oh-so-talented, charmingly Bohemian, tragically impoverish protégés?” John managed a sheepish look and nodded. “I guess you might call me that-” Sherlock felt his stomach drop as he watched John and he reached up and grabbed his own hair, tugging at his harshly. “I'm going to kill him!” he growled, turning his back on John, “I'm going to bloody murder him!”

            Greg swallowed and pulled himself up a bit, looking up at his fellow Bohemians. “I think there might be a bit of a problem,” he mumbled, listening to everything else that was happening inside. John watched Sherlock as he walked around in a frantic manner. He snarled at nothing in particular and sent a vicious glare to the empty opening where Greg’s head had been. He was going to beat Lestrade to a bloody pulp when he got his hands on him. He walked to the door, glowering as he turned to John.

            “Not a bloody Duke,” he sneered, forcing the large door to his room open. He was planning on throwing the poet out, he had not, however, expected to come face to face to with his brother and Moriarty. He made a small sound of panic, not catching the look on either of their faces, and slammed the door closed. “Moriarty!” he cried, looking terror stricken as he turned back to John. His heart was pounding in his chest and he hated the feel of fear creeping into his stomach. He was not in control of the situation and he could feel his chest starting to tighten as he tried to breathe properly.

            “Moriarty?” John asked, looking confusedly at Sherlock. Sherlock managed a half-hearted glare as he pointed to the back of the elephant, trying to make himself look presentable.

            “Go!” he waved, pointing towards the opening at the elephant’s front, “out the back!” He gasped and stood ramrod straight as the door to his room opened and the two men walked in. John ducked down to his knees, eyes widening as he realized he was looking straight at the man’s crotch. He turned his head and listened as the others spoke.

            “Sherlock, are you decent?” Mycroft asked, opening the door fully. John heard Sherlock growl under his breath before turning, a seductive smile painted on his lips. “Where were you?” the elder asked through his teeth. He’d had the damnedest time finding Moriarty and then he’d had to find his brother already up in his room. Sherlock scrambled for an answer as he sidled sideways, bumping John’s head from where it was peeking out from around his leg with his thigh to get him to move with him.

            “I… I was getting ready,” he fibbed, leaning lightly against his drink table as John scrambled behind it. Mycroft narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at his brother before shaking it off and turning back to their guest.

            “Dear Moriarty, please, allow me to introduce Monsieur Sherlock,” he said, holding his arms out towards his brother. The younger stood with his arm stretched out to the side, admiring one of the small rings on his fingers. He looked at Moriarty and held back a grimace, finally able to get a good look at their _actual_ investor.

            “Monsieur,” he purred, now truly seeing what Mycroft had been talking about, “how wonderful of you to take time out of your busy schedule to come see us.” He looked the man up and down quickly, knowing that Moriarty was drinking in his less than half-dressed appearance. The duke walked forward slowly, grinning wickedly.

            “The pleasure, pet, will be all mine,” he replied, forcing his eyes back to Sherlock’s face.  John made a face behind the table at Moriarty’s tone and tried to peek over the edge. Sherlock was glancing over his shoulder to make sure John was hidden and he shot him a look, making the poet shrink back down.

            “Well, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted,” Mycroft said, giving his brother a sharp look and heading out. Sherlock held back a growl and smiled pleasantly at Moriarty. John looked around the edge of the table carefully, eyeing Moriarty. The man grabbed Sherlock’s hand and the taller had to hold back a shudder at the cool, reptilian touch.

            “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,” the duke murmured against the back of Sherlock’s pale hand. Sherlock chuckled and pulled his hand back, wagging a thin finger at him.

            “But diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” he tutted playfully. He grabbed Moriarty’s hat and walking stick and pulled them from him, giving him a lust filled smolder. Moriarty swallowed as he watched Sherlock flop back onto his bed, tossing his things to the side. He stood a little straighter and ran a hand over his hair, making sure it was all in place.

            “After your exquisite performance on the stage tonight, you must be starving,” he said turning towards the small drink table. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the small talk this ignorant man was going to force him through, but jumped up as Moriarty made to walk right where John was hiding.

            “Don’t!” he shouted, making the dark haired duke jump and look at him with scrunched eyebrows. Sherlock gaped for a moment before smiling nervously and running a hand through his hair, gesturing towards the opening of his elephant. “Don’t you just love this view? I had Mycroft choose this spot exactly,” he said proudly, relaxing a bit as Moriarty nodded.

            “It’s lovely,” he replied with an unsure smile, raising an eyebrow. He turned to grab the bottle of champagne once more but Sherlock cried out. The young man couldn’t let John be found. The could both be killed Moriarty turned around to see the man had grabbed a navy blue scarf and was spinning around with it, whirling his arms about by his sides. Sherlock swallowed down the rush of nausea that itched itself up his throat because he was, for the second time that night, making a complete and utter fool of himself for someone completely different!! John had even popped his head up and was watching Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

            “Mmm, I just feel like dancing,” he replied, trying not to relish the look of distaste on Moriarty’s face. He liked that more than the look of feral, uncontrolled want, but that wasn’t what the Moulin Rouge needed. Moriarty shook his head and made to turn around again. Perhaps he’d chosen the wrong man. Now he’d have to deal with an utter fool.

            “Would you like some champagne?” he asked, believing he would have to tame this pet before he could claim it. John quickly ducked back down as Moriarty turned.

            “No!” Sherlock shouted, blood pounding in his ears. Moriarty turned with a frown on his thin lips, irritated now, and the young brunette swallowed, eyes wide. He couldn’t screw this up. “It’s… it’s a little bit funny,” he said hurriedly, the lines of John’s song the only thing he could remember in the moment. He disliked the irony. The doctor’s blue eyes widened as he realized what the man was reciting and popped his head up again to watch the man.

            “What is?” Moriarty asked tersely, placing his hands on his hips. His patience and confusion were completely gone now and he was ready to take alternate action if need be Sherlock took a quick breath and glanced between John and the man in front of him.

            “This…” he paused for a moment, his heart pounding, watching as John mouth the next words, “feeling… inside.” John nodded, keeping an eye one Moriarty’s back. The man in question was watching Sherlock, half curious, half bored and wondering if the man was really sane. John was quick to mouth the next bit. “I’m not one of those who can easily…” Sherlock trailed off, squinting to read John’s lips. “Hide!” Moriarty’s black eyes narrowed and he turned his head slightly.

            “No!” he yelped, throwing himself at the man’s feet as he realized he’d looked too long behind the Duke as he moved to look behind him suspiciously. John had ducked down and scrambled behind the man’s legs, trying to stay out of his line of sight. Sherlock clung to Moriarty’s pants leg. “I know I don’t have much money,” he whimpered, pouting just a bit and running his hands up the man’s legs, “oh, but if I did I’d buy us a big house where we both could live.” He groaned headily and looked up at Moriarty through his dark lashes, giving him a sultry smile as he rubbed his palms over the man’s front.

            The Duke sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing and forcing himself to look up at the ceiling as he felt his blood work its way south very quickly without his say so. Sherlock made a face at the man’s pleasure and quickly parted his legs. He ignored Moriarty’s gasps and looked at John with a ‘get out now!’ expression and pointed at the door. He didn’t wait for any kind of reply and quickly closed the man’s legs.

            “ _I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind_ ,” he sang softly, the words coming to him after having seen John, slowly working his way to standing on his feet, trailing his hand up Moriarty’s chest until he was holding his shoulders, “ _that I put down in words, how wonderful life is now you’re in the world_.” His voice was sweet and rich as usual and filled every crevice of the room, brightening the dark spaces and sending warmth through John’s being. It wrapped around Moriarty and made his decision final. Sherlock would be his, and _only_ his. John stood up slowly with Sherlock, stepping back as he did so.

            “That’s… quite lovely,” he said, forcing down the urge to grab the man’s waist and take him then and there. Sherlock absolutely hated the way the primal, possessive hunger grew exponentially in his dark eyes, but he kept it to himself. He wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, using one hand to point urgently to the door as John made his way to it.

            “It’s from ‘Spectacular, Spectacular’,” he breathed softly, realizing only now what Greg had been doing, “suddenly with you standing right here I think I finally understand the meaning of those words.” He smiled softly and glanced at John again as he eased the door open and wondered why his heart hurt as he watched him quietly back out. “How wonderful life it now you’re in the world.”

            “And what would that be, pet?” Moriarty questioned, swallowing as he realized Sherlock was slowly inching forward. The brunette realized he was going to quickly get tired of that nickname. John was backing his way out the door, but with a glance behind him he saw Moran standing with his back to him. He hurried back in and accidentally slammed the door closed. Moriarty made to turn around but Sherlock flung himself away, crying out as if he’d been struck. John pressed up against the wall near the door, trying to blend in as he faced the curtains hung up by the doorway.

            “No! No!” the younger wailed, sprawling over his bed. He looked up at the Duke with wounded eyes. “Don’t you dare toy with my emotions Moriarty!” he cried, holding back a sarcastic tone and glancing at John as the man pulled away from the wall. Moriarty looked affronted and Sherlock pouted, honestly not caring what it would take right now to get John out of his room. “You obviously know the effect you have on men!” He was too scared at the moment to care about the way Moriarty puffed up and gave a ‘naturally’ sort of look. He looked back at John and saw him standing by the door still, waiting for the chance to run.

            “Let’s make love!” Sherlock growled, jumping up and grabbing the lapels of Moriarty’s jacket and yanking him back on the bed on top of him. His weight pressed heavily and uncomfortably on top of him as the man’s face was buried in the pillows beside his throat. He waved at John, throwing his arm over the Duke’s back to tell him to get a move and _get out_. John nodded and hurried from his ‘hiding’ spot.

            “You want to make love of course, don’t you?” he asked, pulling the man’s face back to place a regretful kiss on his thin lips. He contained a shudder, feeling chills working down his spine. He forced the man’s head back against his throat and almost gagged. Moriarty was shocked, to say the least, but didn’t mind being pressed flush against Sherlock’s lean, perfect body.

            “Oh Moriarty,” he moaned, looking at John with wide eyes as he stopped in the door way. _Go!_ he mouthed, throwing his arm towards the exit. The blonde gave him a pleading sort of look as he glanced between Sherlock and Moriarty. The brunette nearly snarled at him but decided to glare at him instead and grabbed Moriarty’s shoulders.

            “Yes, dear god yes you’re absolutely right. We should wait until opening night,” he gasped, sneering at the relieved practically satisfied look on John face. He pushed the duke up and off him, almost laughing at the look on his face as John scrambled to hide near the back entrance.

            “W-wait?” Moriarty asked incredulously, “wait?!” Sherlock nodded seriously and placed a hand on the man’s chest.

            “There’s some power in you that scares me,” he said, feigning deep respect and pushing him backwards off the bed. “You must go!” Moriarty’s eyes widened as Sherlock stood up and started shoving him towards the door. God, at least he could hold off the inevitable for a while.

            “Go? But I just got here?” he said as Sherlock ushered him out. The brunette nodded but swallowed and began panting slightly for air as he opened the door. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he just wanted some peace and quiet.

            “Yes, yes I know _dear_ but we'll see each other every day during rehearsal,” he said, pushing the man out of his room, making him stumbled into Moran, “we must wait! We must wait until opening night!” He shut the door and rested his back against it, running a hand through his curls and watching as John came out from his hiding place. He glowered dangerously at the man and stumbled forward pulling his shirt closed.

            “Do you have any idea… _any_ idea of what would happen if you were to be found in my room!?” he rasped, voice strained as he struggled for air. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he took a quick breath to continue but gasped softly, making a small, pained noise as he felt his lungs constrict painfully. His eyes rolled back in his head and he swayed on his feet. John watched with wide, fearful eyes, shocked into stunned silence until Sherlock began falling forward. He caught the man in his arms as he fell against his chest.

            “Oh Christ! Sherlock?” The man was completely limp in his hold and he looked around, utterly clueless. “Sherlock?” he hissed, shaking him as best he could with his arms wrapped around his ductile form. He swallowed the lump in in his throat and bit his lip. What was he supposed to do now?


	4. The Pitch

            John shook Sherlock’s limp body, trying to wake the man and fearing the worst for his health. He had no knowledge that Mycroft was in a large, mostly abandoned store house across from the Moulin Rouge, waiting for the right moment to check on his brother. The elder Holmes looked out towards Sherlock’s room, fiddling with the telescope in front of him.

            “I’d best look and see that everything’s going smoothly,” he muttered, bending down and grabbing the end of the old telescope. He took a steadying breath and let himself be immersed in a cool, collected business like façade and placed his eye to the glass. He looked quickly and saw Sherlock being shaken pliantly in ‘Moriarty’s’ hold. He pulled away, nose scrunched and he looked out at Paris. “At least it’s getting done,” he sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and swinging his umbrella nervously.

            “Sherlock,” John pleaded, shaking him and trying to rouse him, “please, Sherlock! Wake up!” He groaned as all the man did was flop forward onto his chest. As John attempted to wake him up, the Bohemians were looking in from the side of the back entrance, having had enough of dangling. He looked at the man’s bed and managed to take a step towards it, dragging the unconscious body with him. He felt his legs hit the edge of the large bed. “Alright,” he grunted, turning on his heel, “onto the bed.” He fell forward as he practically tossed Sherlock onto the mattress. He went down with him however, and ended up with his arms trapped beneath the man. If the night simply couldn’t get any worse, Sherlock’s door opened.

            “Sherlock, pet, I do believe I left my ha…” Moriarty walked back in and stopped, seeing John sprawled across Sherlock. He felt his blood boil beneath his pale skin as John looked up at him with wide, terrified blue eyes. “Foul play?” he asked tightly, his nose scrunching as he scowled darkly at them. John shook his head, trying to get something out of his mouth but only ended up looking like a dying fish. Sherlock took that moment to wake. His eyelids fluttered and he looked up at John confusedly before glancing over to Moriarty.

            “Oh Moriarty,” he said pleasantly, swallowing and trying to get his wits about him. He realized what had happened immediately and his brain jumped started into working, leaving him a tad bit dizzy. The duke glared murderously at Sherlock, his fingers curling into fists by his sides.

            “It’s a little bit funny,” he ground out, “this feeling inside?” John shook his head slightly, feeling as if he should have burst into flames by now with the look Moriarty was giving them.

            “Oh yes, that was beautifully spoken Duke,” Sherlock said, squirming a bit to sit up. “Mm, let me introduce,” he looked up at John and cupped the sides of his face, “the writer!” Sherlock turned their heads to look at Moriarty. The man’s black eyes were narrowed and he scowled at both of them.

            “The writer?!” he asked heatedly as he raised an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and shoved John off him.

            “Oh yes, we were… we were rehearsing,” he told the Duke semi-smoothly. He was lying through his teeth and everyone knew it, but as long as Moriarty believe it, it was alright. The man snorted and looked at the pair of them as they stood up.

            “Oh really? Ha! Do you truly take me for a fool? You honestly expect me to believe that scantily clad in the arms of another man in the middle of the night, in an elephant,” he shouted, throwing his arms up to keep from hitting something, “you were rehearsing?!” Sherlock opened his mouth to counter, but he turned as Greg and his band of fellow Bohemians traipsed in noisily.

            “How’s the rehearsal going loves?” the grey haired man questioned, looking at Sherlock with a grin. For once, Sherlock was glad to see the older man, even if he was drunk. Mike walked over to the small piano Sherlock kept in his room and hit an awful sounding combination of keys. “Hope the piano’s in tune,” he said with a nervous chuckle. Anderson walked in and straight to Moriarty, slipping out of his suit jacket as he did. “Sorry, we got held up,” he said with a shrug. Molly gave him a little curtsey and took a large gulp of the drink in her hand. “Would you like some?” she asked, holding out the glass with a wry smile.

            Sherlock was allowed a bit of breathing room as the Bohemians made a ruckus, doing their best to discombobulate Moriarty. He prayed Mycroft was keeping his big nose out, but knowing his brother he’d be spying through that damned telescope of his. Which, naturally, he was. Mycroft had paced around the small room for no more than five minutes before he knelt back down and looked into Sherlock’s room.

            “Oh God,” he breathed, eyes widening as he saw all the Bohemians scattered about and Moriarty looking around unsurely. He took off like lightening, cursing whatever was against them tonight. Sherlock smiled at Moriarty and stood up. He felt his knees wobble a bit beneath him but he managed to stay on his feet.

            “When I spoke those words to you before, you filled me with such inspiration,” he pushed, feeling his heart warm slightly, but not for the man looking at him suspiciously. “I realized just how much work we had to get done before tomorrow, so I called everyone together for an emergency rehearsal,” he explained, sweeping his arm back to Molly and the men behind him and praying the man was dense enough to believe it.

            “It you’re rehearsing,” Moriarty questioned coolly, teeth still clenched as he forced himself to calm down, “then where is Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock waved it off and smirked.

            “Oh I saw no reason to bother Mycroft,” he replied just as his dear brother threw the door open and began apologizing profusely to the Duke. Sherlock jumped in shock before taking a deep breath and biting his tongue. “Ah Mycroft!” his brother said with a forced laugh, “you made it!” He moved to stand in front of the older and narrowed his eyes. “It’s alright. Moriarty knows all about the emergency rehearsal,” he said with a tight smile.

            “Emergency rehearsal?” the elder questioned, nodding even as he was thrown completely for a loop. The younger rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s inability to catch up and nodded.

            “Mhm,” he looked at the Duke, giving him a sultry smile, “to incorporate the Duke’s artistic idea.” Rule number one; make them think it was all their idea. He could tell by the pompous, puffed up look they were all given, they would have this in bag.

            “Ah well, yes,” Mycroft recovered quickly and smiled nicely between them, “I’m sure Sarah will be only too delighted to– ”

            “Sarah’s left!” Greg interrupted, giving Mycroft an apologetic look. The Holmes brother shot him a look but Sherlock sighed and turned back to the large group.

            “Mycroft, cat’s out of the bag,” he cried, smirking and throwing his arms about dramatically, “dear Moriarty’s already a fan of the new writer’s work.” He waved at John and turned once more to face his brother, almost close enough so their noses touched, pointedly ignoring the adoring look the blonde idiot was giving him. People always looked at him like that, why should he be any different? “That’s why he is oh so keen to _invest_.” He gave his brother a look and almost smacked him as he received yet another confused look.

            “Invest?” he asked softly in awe before it dawned on him, “ah of course! Invest!” He turned to Moriarty with a forced smile. “Naturally, and you can hardly blame me for trying to hide our…” he paused, looking helpless to John and Lestrade.

            “John,” they both supplied quickly. “John away,” Mycroft finished with a flourish. Moriarty scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

            “I’m so far ahead of you Holmes,” he sniffed, looking nervously around the room. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but quickly remembered his place and nodded.

            “Why don’t we go back to my office and peruse the paperwork?” he offered politely, eyeing his brother and the irritated expression on his face. He was ready to be alone for a while. John grinned at Greg, surprised that Moriarty seemed keen on the idea before he paused and looked at them all.

            “What’s the story?” he asked, pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow. “If I’m to invest, I’ll need to know what the story is.” Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly and he looked at Sherlock.

            “Oh yes, naturally. The story’s about,” he paused, hating himself for feeling slow once more as he racked his brain for an answer. He looked to the DI next to John and grinned. “Gregory, what’s the story?” The older man gave him a look and Mycroft replied with a subtle shrug.

            “Uh… the story – the story’s about… it’s about um…” Greg fumbled over his words as everyone looked at him, not having any idea of what it would have been. John looked at them for a moment before stepping up, an idea taking hold.

            “It’s about love!” he said, looking at Sherlock who huffed and was appalled when he realized he actually had to keep himself from blushing. Moriarty scrunched his nose at the declaration.

            “Love?” he asked snidely, scrunching his eyebrows and looking at the doctor turned playwright with his black eyes. John nodded eagerly, his imagination already whirring with ideas for a plot. “It’s about love overcoming all obstacles,” he pressed, his heart fluttered a bit as he looked to Sherlock.

            “And it’s set in Switzerland!” Molly piped up from the side. Moriarty’s sharp gaze turned to her. “Switzerland?” he asked with distaste. “It’s not set in Switzerland!” Mycroft interrupted quickly. John grimaced and looked around frantically. He saw one of the elephant statues Sherlock kept in his room and it hit him.

            “India!” John shouted, shaking his head at all the ruckus, “India! It’s set in India!” He swallowed at all the eyes on him. He took a deep breath and looked around, a smile tugging at his lips. “And… there’s a courtesan,” he continued softly, “the most beautiful courtesan in all the world.” He felt the air of anticipation moving about the room, filling it and he grinned, knowing he was the one who created it. His eyes lingered on Sherlock, who gave him a small, almost shy smile.

            “But,” John said, turning to look in the Duke’s direction and sending him a restrained glare, “his kingdom’s invaded by an evil Maharaja. Now, in order to save his kingdom, he has to seduce the evil Maharaja,” he tells as if it’s from a story book as Moriarty looks at him with a scowl, eyes narrowed. He held back a chuckle as he realized just where his story was coming from and where it was, hopefully, going.

            “Oh the night of the seduction however, he mistakes a penniless po-” he stopped himself; realizing ‘poet’ wouldn’t work. He looked around quickly again, trying to find something work with. “A penniless…” his eyes landed on a sitar propped in a corner and he moved forward and picked it up, “a penniless sitar player, for the evil Maharaja and she falls in love with him!” He turned to Sherlock and smiled at him, his tone half-urgent, half sheepish.

            “He wasn’t trying to trick him or anything,” he said and Sherlock nodded in silent understanding, passing it off as a nod of agreement but John knew. The blonde grinned and looked around at the group. “But he was dressed as a Maharaja because... he’s appearing in a play.” Anderson walked forward and grabbed the sitar from John.

            “And I’ll play the penniless, tango dancing sitar player. I sing like an angel and dance ... like the devil,” he said, striking a rather ridiculous pose. Lestrade, Molly, and Mike all snorted and laughed quietly at him and Sherlock raised a dubious eyebrow. Greg smacked Anderson on the arm. John waved at the quickly, silencing them.

            “And?” Moriarty prompted, allowing himself to be a little curious now, “what happens next?” John grinned unashamedly; the man was hooked.

            “Well, the penniless sitar player and the courtesan,” John pressed on, gesturing to the two who would be the two, “they have to hide their love from the evil Maharaja.” He eyed Moriarty again but no one took any notice.

            “And-and the penniless sitar player’s sitar is magical!” Molly said excitedly, “it can only speak the truth!” John nodded eagerly, falling in love with the idea more and more. Mycroft looked at the band of fools and held back a smirk as he glazed over the excitement.

            “I think Gregory should play this magical sitar,” he said, speaking up and ignoring the snigger his brother let escape. Greg looked at him with narrowed eyes. He finally raised an eyebrow and grabbed the sitar from Anderson.

            “Oh of course,” her replied easily and the others knew he’d had just a bit too much to drink to be agreeing to this part. He strummed a few wrong chords and looked at Sherlock. “You are lovely,” he said sweetly and Sherlock simply nodded, lips pressed tight so he wouldn’t laugh. The DI walked to Mycroft and strummed a few more wrong chords. “You are fat,” he sneered and Mycroft rolled his eyes, biting his lip to keep his mouth from twitching into a smile. Lestrade walked in front of Moriarty and plucked the strings.

            “You are –” The others grabbed him and yanked him back, grinning apologetically at the duke. The man simply shrugged it off and grinned wickedly. “And so the sitar gives it all away then!” John nodded and Mycroft gently nudged the poet.

            “Tell him about the chorus,” he muttered  and John went speechless for a moment, looking between the two. “The tantric can-can,” he managed, giving Moriarty a weak smile, “it’s an...” He trailed off and looked back hopelessly at Mycroft. The man rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

            “It’s an erotic, absolutely spectacular scene that captures the thrusting, violent, vibrant, and wild bohemian spirit that this whole production embodies,” he explained, putting forced passion into his words as tried to sell their pitch. Moriarty scrunched his eyebrows and looked at Mycroft.

            “What do you mean by that?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft feigned an excited grin and held his arms out to the group gathered behind him.

            “The show will be a magnificent, opulent, tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement, a sensual ravagement, it will be…” He was practically in the duke’s face, voice low and excited, “ _Spectacular, Spectacular_.” Moriarty raised an unsure eyebrow as the man spun from his left to his right, wondering if this whole thing was absolutely absurd.

            “ _No words in the vernacular can describe his great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment; returns are fixed at ten percent_ ,” he sang, his voice low and almost gravely, “ _you must agree, that's excellent, and on top of your fee..._ ” He grinned and backed away from the duke, arms stretched out and nodded to himself when he felt the others join in the rouse and rest themselves over his arms. He wasn’t exactly enjoying himself, but at the least Moriarty looked a bit frightened, or worried, either would do.

            “ _You'll be involved artistically. So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years! So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years!_ ” They all sang as they moved forward and Moriarty’s eyes widened and he stumbled back, falling into a chair as he watched.

            “ _Elephants! Bohemians! Indians! And courtesans!_ ” They were all in line, acting out their own bits and making things up as the went, just praying the entire time that Moriarty would take it. “ _Acrobats! And juggling bears! Exotic girls! Fire-eaters! Muscle Men! Contortionists! Intrigue, danger, and romance! Electric lights, machinery, powered with electricity!_ ” They grinned and went along with the act, jumping about and spinning around the Duke. The man watched from his chair, eyes wide and slightly confused, but he thought he was keeping up enough to understand.

            “ _So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years!_ ” They small group danced in a circle around him, closing in on him and getting in his face. Moriarty swallowed nervously, his nose scrunching in distaste, and was thankful when they finally backed off. “ _So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years!_ ” The all moved back in front of the Duke and got down on their knees, scooting backwards as they smiled ‘happily’ at him.

            “ _Spectacular, spectacular! No words in the vernacular, can describe this great event, you'll be dumb with wonderment!_ ” The all scattered then, moving to grab different things. Mike played a rather horrid chord and then jumped up. They were all up in a group, standing together one moment and making noise and silly music before bouncing separately the next moment, just to keep the man’s attention. “ _The hills are alive, with the sound of music._ ” Sherlock could see in his face that the man was actually starting to bounce his head ever so slightly to beat and he actually grinned as he dance.

            “ _So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years! So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years!_ ” Moriarty yelped as they ran forward and picked his chair up, turning him in a circle before setting him down. The gathered in front of him, Sherlock draped across the group’s arms. The Duke pursed his lips and tapped his chin as if thoughtfully, almost teasingly.

            “Alright, but what should happen in the end?” he asked, seeing there had been no resolution. The group paused and looked at one another before jumping up and hopping about the room. They threw things to ones another and dressed themselves up as they closed the large curtains near the entrance of the room. John was shoved in front of the curtains and Moriarty pursed his lips. “Ahem!” He cleared throat loudly, hating the awkward stare down with the Duke and sighed in relief when the lights dimmed and pointed towards the curtains.

            “ _The courtesan and sitar man, are pulled apart by an evil plan..._ ” He moved to the side as the curtains parted, revealing Anderson and Sherlock, dramatized looks of passion on their faces. They both had dressed themselves up and were playing their parts. They pretended to be forced apart by Molly, who was dressed as an evil witch and Sherlock took over for the moment. “ _But in the end she hears his song…_ ” The two moved close again and John sang softly. “ _And their love is just too strong._ ” Sherlock blinked a few times, a bit surprised by the emotion in John’s voice as he forced himself not to glance back at the man.

            “It's a little bit funny,” Moriarty sang softly, extremely off-key, and everyone looked over at the man, “this feeling inside...” They were all rather horrified by the Duke’s singing and had to shake themselves out of the shocked stupor. They all jumped back together so they could make a quick change to the back ground.

            “ _So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for 50 years!_ ” They set up Sherlock’s changing screen as a makeshift mountain and John quickly jumped to the opposite side as Sherlock and Anderson knelt back in the middle. Greg flopping down with the sitar. “ _Sitar player's secret song helps them flee the evil one…_ ” Anderson pretended to cover Sherlock as Mycroft stood behind the screen and ran a doll and horse up the top of the changing screen, pretending it was the Evil Maharaja. “ _Though the tyrant rants and rails, it is all to no avail!_ ” Mycroft then jumped up, pushing the screen to the side, with a large turban on his head.

            “I am the evil maharajah! You will not escape!” he cried as the lot of them pretended to cower. He glanced up, relieved to see that Moriarty at least seemed to be somewhat entertained. Sherlock grinned then, sitting up.

            “Oh no one could play an Evil Maharaja like you could Mycroft!” he said, half teasing, half serious. Mycroft actually grinned and nodded his head.

            “No one's going to!” he declared before moving with the rest of them and standing in a line in front of the potential investor. **“** _So exciting, we'll make them laugh we'll make them cry! So delighting-!_ ” The group was all over the room, glad the Duke’s attention stayed on them and that he had been thoroughly distracted. He finally spoke up when they paused.

**“** And in the end should someone die?” he asked quite hopefully. Sherlock couldn’t hold back the look of disgust and was glad the man hadn’t seen him. Everyone was stunned, though they supposed they shouldn’t have been, and continued on as if nothing had been said. “ _So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting it will run for 50 years...!_ ” They jumped and tore down the setting, Greg even got in trouble with Moran before everything sort of patched itself up and they were all dramatically posed in front of Moriarty.

            “I… I like it, mostly,” he said, more dumbstruck than anything. All of them cheered and shouted, rushing the Duke and hugging him. Thanking him for the opportunity; even John who had, and still had a through dislike for the man. It was all good now, they’d won the man’s favor and they were going to be able to make with their heads still attached to their bodies.


	5. Elephant Love Medley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally gives in to the crazy writer.

_Holmes had an investor. And the Bohemians had a show._

            People were going crazy in the hotel across from the Moulin Rouge. Everyone was drinking and doing as they pleased; it was the regular, excited dip in debauchery. Greg was absolutely smashed, sitting atop the roof and shouting to his heart’s content. “It's the end of a century! The Bohemian Revolution is here.”

            Everyone was having fun and celebrating the success of the Bohemian’s and John’s fantastically weaved plot. Well, everyone but John. Everyone else was drinking and shouting, enjoying the night they had before planning would go into play, John was downstairs, sitting by his typewriter, unable to think of anything else but Sherlock.

_While the celebration party raged upstairs, I tried to write, but all I could think about was him._  

            John sat in his window, typewriter only a few feet away as he looked out over the Moulin Rouge. He sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee. “How wonderful life is...” he sang softly, mind flitting though different images of Sherlock, the way he’d looked at the doctor, the way his voice sent shivers down his spine. _Was he thinking about me...?_ “Now you're in the world.” He tried to look away from the large elephant, but he couldn’t help wonder if Sherlock was there watching for him as well.

 

            Sherlock sat in his room in front of his vanity mirror, red vest and black trousers on again, although no lights were on. He looked silently over his shoulder, his curls falling into his eyes as John’s voice echoed though his mind. _Duke? I'm not a duke. I'm a writer. He wasn't trying to trick him or anything - It's about Love! It's about love overcoming all obstacles._ He shook his head, sighing as he stood up. He could just make out the young writer as John stood from the small balcony and moved inside. Sherlock moved slowly towards the large opening of his elephant, heart aching in his chest for some reason.

**“** _I follow the night. Can't stand the light. When will I begin to live again?_ ” His voice was low and powerful as he looked at the old, decrepit hotel, watching from afar as John typed. He swallowed thickly, ignoring the feeling of want and warmth filling his heart. He blinked slightly when he felt John’s eyes on him and turned his gaze away.             “ _One day I'll fly away! Leave all this to yesterday... what more could your love do for me?_ ” John stood, just barely making out Sherlock’s voice through all the noise from upstairs. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could’ve sworn that he was hearing the young man. Sherlock turned away, resting his back against the side of the entrance, closing his eyes against the emotions refusing to leave him be. “ _When will love be through with me? Why live life from dream to dream and dread the day when dreaming ends?_ ”

**“** _How wonderful life is now you're in the world._ ” John sang quietly, smiling as watched Sherlock move away from the window and to the other side of his room. He left his own apartment quickly, making his way back to the Moulin Rouge. Sherlock felt a weariness he’d never felt before, something that just felt odd and he wished he could shake it. He climbed up the stairs running along the side of the elephant to the top. He looked hopefully back to the hotel balcony, hating the disappointment he felt when he no longer saw John. He shook it off, hurrying up the rest of the stairs and sighing at the fresh air that filled his lungs.

            “ _One day I'll fly away , leave all this to yesterday,_ ” he sang, his deep voice filling the night air. He smiled, feeling everything fall away for the moment as he held his arms outstretched. It was just him on top of the world, if only for a moment. John had moved underneath the elephant, looking for Sherlock as he listened to his voice. “ _Why live life from dream to dream and dread the day when dreaming ends?_ ” He felt it all coming back to him and the smile fell slowly. John had found a rope and climbed up the back of the elephant, following the sound of the young man’s lovely voice.

            He only slipped once before he found his footing again and continued up. Sherlock sighed, stretching his arms above his head as he moved towards the little sitting area. He hummed quietly as he sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging them close to his chest. “ _One day I'll fly away, fly, fly away._ ” John smiled as he walked up slowly, hiding behind one of the four pillars tied with curtains. Sherlock swore he heard rustling behind him and turned a bit, yelping slightly when he saw John standing there.

            “What the bloody hell-?” he said, covering his mouth and stomach as he caught his breath and allowed his racing heart to calm a bit. John winced and stepped from around the small pillar.

            “Sorry, I'm sorry,” he apologized quickly, feeling his heart speed up a little at the sight of Sherlock, “I didn't mean... I saw – I saw your light on,” he continued, nervous once more, “I climbed up the...” He shrugged, gesturing back towards the end of the elephant. Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunched together as he listened and he finally shook his head, unable to understand a word of what the man was saying.

**“** What?” He was tired and he was easily irritated when he was tired, but… he found he didn’t want to particularly snap at John. He had no idea why. John swallowed and stepped forward a bit.

**“** I couldn't sleep and...I--I wanted to thank you,” he told him quickly, “for helping me get the job, and you know, not being murdered.” He smiled when Sherlock chuckled under his breath and nodded.

            “We all would’ve been murdered had he thought anything more,” he replied, brushing his curls out of his eyes, “and it was really no trouble. I’ve gotten out of worse situations.” He offered a small smile. “And Greg was right anyhow, a rarity in itself. You’re… you’re quite talented.” John smiled a bit, nodding in thanks, trying not to look hopefully at the man.

            “It’s going to be a wonderful show,” Sherlock assured, knowing that if the young writer was in charge it would indeed be a spectacular performance, “Well, I…I had better go because we both have a big day tomorrow.” He plastered on a smile, feeling too exhausted to do much more and turned away, trying to hurry back to the steps leading to his room. John felt his chest tighten at the thought of the man leaving and he walked forward quickly.

            “Wait!” he called, watching Sherlock’s back, “please wait.” Sherlock stopped, taking a deep breath and then turning on his heel. He could see the look of hope John was trying to hide and he sighed, realizing he would have to put on his own act. “Before when we were…when we...” he trailed off, fiddling with his hands as Sherlock’s eyes roved over him, “when you thought I was the Duke and you said that you loved me. And I--I wondered if– ”

**“** If it was just an act?” Sherlock interrupted, wanting to sound proud, to sound like he was the king and just absolutely above John, but he couldn’t help but sound just a touch broken. John nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shaking.

            “Yes,” he replied softly. Sherlock managed a somewhat haughty look and lifted his chin.

            “Of course,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest, “you thought it was real?” he asked before John got the chance to state it. He sighed and stepped forward, his own heart actually aching at the look of heartbreak on John’s. “John,” he said softly, “I’m a courtesan, remember? I'm paid to make men believe what they want to believe.” He wanted to be snide, be cruel and see the man leave in tears, but his heart wouldn’t let him. He had to let the man down easy and send him away as gently as possible. He tipped his head to the side, confused by John’s forced smile.

            “Yeah, it’s so silly of me,” he murmured, letting out a shaky breath, “to think that you could fall in love with someone like me” Sherlock shook his head, letting out a humourless and bitter laugh.

            “I can’t fall in love,” he said, itching for a cigarette, “with anyone.” He’d quit a few months after officially starting at the Moulin Rouge, and still had the desire for one now and again and he would’ve died for one right then. John looked a bit startled at Sherlock’s words and he took another few steps forwards.

            “Can't fall in love?” he said, looking a bit lost at the simple notion, “but a life without love! That's terrible!” he cried, eyes wide and innocent and pure. Sherlock snorted and leaned lazily against one of the stone pillars.

            “No, being on the street, that's terrible,” he retorted, thinking about what it had been like, scrounging for food and living in cardboard boxes. He looked up and glared as John once again opened his mouth.

            “No!” Sherlock was rather shocked by the pronouncement and shook his head. “Love is like oxygen!” John smiled and nodded, moving forward. Sherlock actually laughed, entertained by the writer’s notion, feeling himself shoving down his agreement.

            “You’re mad, John Watson,” he said, watching as John beamed at him and moved closer.

            “Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love,” he said passionately, watching Sherlock sigh exasperatedly and shake his head.

            “Please,” the darker headed one half-pleaded, “don't start that bloody nonesense again.”   “ _All you need is love!_ ” John sang, swinging slightly from one of the poles and grinning at Sherlock. The younger huffed and raised an eyebrow. “A boy has got to eat,” he told him firmly. “ _All you need is love!_ ” The writer was persistent, moving closer. “He'll end up on the street!” Sherlock told him, leaning back as John leaned in. “ _All you need is love..._ ” Sherlock huffed and furrowed his brows. **“** _Love is just a game..._ ” John hurried around Sherlock as the dancer turned to go and leapt in front of him.

            “ _I was made for loving you baby, you were made for loving me!_ ” John’s voice was low and sweet as he looked Sherlock up and down teasingly. He hoped this worked. He was in love with the man he knew it, and he knew in his heart that Sherlock felt the same. Sherlock was annoyed at first as John blocked his path, but saw no other way out unless he went along with the fool’s game, knowing he himself was enjoying it.

            “ _The only way of loving me baby is to pay a lovely fee_ ,” he returned with a genuine smile, twirling a thick curl around his finger as he turned and walked away. John grinned and followed after, leaping over the small table in the center of sitting after and standing on the couch, holding onto the pillar with one hand and leaning over, getting close to Sherlock’s nose.

            “ _Just one night, give me just one night!_ ” he sang, pulling a pleading look. Sherlock had to hold back a smile, as he shook his head.

            “ _There's no way 'cause you can't pay_ ,” the younger sang back, rubbing his thumb and index finger together, raising his eyebrows as he turned again. This man could not get the best of him. He wouldn’t fall for this silly song and his sweet smile, and those bright, warm eyes. Sherlock shook his head and glared a bit at John.

            “ _In the name of love, one night in the name of love!_ ” John swung around, making sure not to let Sherlock get past him. The taller actually laughed despite what he’d just told himself, smiling at John as the writer swung and grinned at him, trying to get him to cave. The man was making an absolute fool of himself, and  yet he seemed he couldn’t have cared less. He moved behind one of the pillars a bit, watching John.

            “ _You crazy fool, I won't give into you_ ,” Sherlock sang, peeking out from behind the pillar, pursing his lips a bit at the way the man’s smile fell. He sighed and turned, moving back towards the stairs.

            “ _Don't_ ,” John sang softly, stepping forward after him, " _leave me this way._ ” Sherlock turned, looking at him over his shoulder with an exasperated expression. He was a little surprised to see how much the blonde was actually feeling, how much emotion he was showing in his eyes. “ _I can't survive without your sweet love, oh baby...don't leave me this way._ ” He grinned at Sherlock as he sat down, watching the man turn slowly. He hoped his understand, prayed he could feel just how much Sherlock meant to him.

            “ _You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs_ ,” Sherlock sang, his deep voice low and a bit sad. He turned his back to John, crossing his arms again. John gave him a small smile and stood, walking towards him.

            “ _I look around me and I see it isn't so, oh no_ ,” he replied, grinning as he moved and stood above Sherlock on a small stool. He chuckled and sighed contentedly, mesmerized by Sherlock’s bright eyes. The man snorted and leaned on the pillar John was holding on to, offering a little smile in return.

            “ _Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs._ ” Sherlock was leaning towards John, his mind screaming at him to run away as fast as possible as the writer moved a bit closer, holding tight to the pillar.

            “ _Well what's wrong with that? I'd like to know_ ,” he sang softly, brushing noses with the younger. He slowly inched forward, getting closer to the man’s lips as he reached up to hold his chin. Sherlock had lost control over his brain functions for a second, giving into his bodily and emotional needs before coming to his senses. He turned and ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. “ _Cause here I go again!_ ” John smiled a little before running past Sherlock onto the glass top of his elephant.

            Sherlock screamed in shock and worry for the man’s life as John held his arms out, taking in the sight of Paris from his rather precarious vantage point. “ _Love lifts us up where we belong!_ ” he sang, grinning as he glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and terrified as he moved as close to the glass as he dared.

            “Are you bloody mental!? Get down!” he shouted, trying to get him to come back, “get down here!” John simply laughed and turned back, feeling like he could do anything.

            “ _Where eagles fly, on a mountain high!_ ” Sherlock finally managed to grab a hold of his hand and tugged him back down and right against his chest. He blinked a little at the sudden close proximity and looked down.

            “ _Love makes us act like we are fools_ ,” he replied as he glanced up at John before pulling himself away, “ _throw our lives away for one happy day_.” He gave John a rather desperate look, wishing he would just go away so he could delete this entire happening and simply go on with his life as he had been. He shook his head, clenching his fingers in his hair before moving back down the stairs to his room.

            “ _We could be heroes! Just for one day!_ ” John voice was powerful and loving, telling of promises of love and warmth. It was a risk the writer was willing to take and he just wished Sherlock would trust him to catch him. Sherlock grit his teeth, turning back to the man.

            “ _You_ ,” he muttered, pointing at him, “ _you will be mean._ ” He nodded as if that settled and headed back down. He couldn’t see the poet getting angry. Perhaps if something truly broke him, or thoroughly pissed him off, but he seemed much to kind to ever be mean. John laughed and shook his head, following.

            “ _No, I won’t_!” John promised, smiling as he followed after Sherlock, knowing he was close to having him. He loved Sherlock and he knew that Sherlock loved him back. He was almost there, almost had him admitting it.

            “ _And I… I'll drink all the time_!” Sherlock shrugged a bit, know that if this went sour he’d be doing much more than just drinking. Wait, what did he mean ‘if things went sour?’, nothing was going to happen! John followed Sherlock down as he moved into the elephant.

            “ _We should be lovers_!” he sang, stepping into the opening. Sherlock was leaning against a wall, a small, tremulous smile on his lips.

            “ _We can't do that_ ,” he replied softly, glancing to John. To many things could go wrong, everything would end in disaster, his whole, careful balance would topple… The writer hummed, taking a step closer.

**“** _We should be lovers! And that's a fact._ ” John was warmth and love and comfort and Sherlock couldn’t help but be drawn to him. His heart beat a little faster, eager for Sherlock to finally give in to his heart’s desire.

            “ _Though nothing would keep us together..._ ” He looked at John, finally taking in the broad smile and welcoming arms.

            “ _We could steal time,_ ” he paused, waiting for Sherlock and giving him just enough time to join in. “ _Just for one day. We can be heroes, forever and ever. We can be heroes forever and ever._ ” They took it step by step, moving closer to each other and John finally wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him as close as he could. Sherlock melted into the touch, wanting everything that John was promising as a bright smile finally took over his lips. “ _We can be heroes…_ ”

            “ _Just because..._ ” John took over, smiling at the grin that was stretching across Sherlock’s handsome face, “ _I...will always love you!_ ”

            “ _I... can't help loving... you..._ ” They both were as close as could be, noses gently bumping together as they watched the other, drinking in the love and adoration in the other’s eyes.

            “ _How wonderful life is... now you're in the world..._ ” Sherlock hummed, his breath mingling with John’s. “You're going to be bad for business,” he murmured, grinning despite himself as he draped his arms around John’s shoulders, “I can tell.” John smiled as they kissed, lips pressed together for the first time and he felt electricity simply flying through his being. Sherlock was shocked. He’d never felt this, in any form, and he was loving it

            He loved the way John made him feel and the way just kissing the man felt. He never wanted to forget this feeling. He tangled his fingers in John’s short hair, feeling fireworks bursting all around them as they kissed again and again.

            Across the street in the dingy, run down hotel, Greg sat on the balcony, more than a little drunk. He was simply staring out across the street at the Moulin Rouge, eyes glazed as a single line passed his lips. “How wonderful life is, now you're in the world...” His words were slow and slurred, and so very sad despite the very happy, and delighted mood that had overtaken everyone not a few hours ago.


	6. Every Breath of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Alright, letting you know! I've gone back and I'm redoing the chapters, trying to write them a little better so they fit characters and stuff like that! If you're just starting to read this, you shouldn't have to worry, but if you've already started ad are keeping up, I wanted you to know!!))

_How wonderful life was now Sherlock was in the world. But in Moriarty, Mycroft had got much more than he had bargained for._

            John sat at his type writer, memories running through his mind as he thought over his story. Song lyrics and play lines echoed from dark corners and he shook it off, looking out to the Moulin Rouge, glancing to the large building in the back that Mycroft had used as an office of sorts.

 

            Mycroft and Moriarty sat in the elder Holmes’ office, Mycroft eyeing the man with some worry as the Duke watched him with cold eyes. “You do know that transforming the Moulin Rouge into a theater will cost a ridiculous sum, Holmes,” he said lowly, hands running smoothly over his hat, “So naturally, I, in return, would require a contract.” He grinned a bit ferally, not even trying to hide his eagerness.

            “It would bind Sherlock exclusively to me,” he told Mycroft, and the man raised an eyebrow, sitting down at his desk in a bit of shock. Moriarty smirked and continued. “Of course, I shall require some form of security,” he said and Mycroft felt dread run down his spine and settle in the pit of his stomach, “I’m sure the deeds to your Moulin Rouge should do.” Mycroft’s eyes widened and he paused for a moment.

            “My dear Moriarty… I-” He couldn’t get more out as he was interrupted by the Duke.

            “Hmph! Please Don’t think for a _single_ second that I am _naïve_ , Holmes,” he sneered, squeezing the rim of his hat, “I shall have the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, and if there are any... issues or ... such, my manservant,” he paused, raising himself up as much a man of his stature could. A tall, dark, imposing figure appeared behind him and he smirked, “Sebastian, will deal with it in the only language that you underworld show-folk people understand.” He gave Mycroft a look that said ‘try me’ as the Holmes brother worked his mouth, trying to think of something to say.

            “Sherlock _will_ be mine,” he growled, causing the elder’s chest to clench in worry. He knew Sherlock said he was ready to do this, but... this was mental. He was unable to see the image of Sherlock, thoroughly disrobed and ready to be ravished permanently imprinted in Moriarty’s mind. The Duke tried to shrug it off, but Mycroft could see the anger boiling right under the surface. Moriarty really was mad.

            “It's not that I'm a jealous man. I juST DON'T LIKE OTHER PEOPLE TOUCHING MY THINGS!!” By the end Moriarty was screaming and Mycroft was very worried for the safety of his little brother or anyone that came near the Duke. He’d known the man was off, but not completely off his rocker. Moriarty was taking deep breaths to try and compose himself and straighten his bent hat from where he’d squeezed it.

            Mycroft resisted pursing his lips

and nodded slightly, setting himself in his seat. If his brother knew what he was getting into and he couldn’t change his mind, then he would have to shut all brotherly affection out. He couldn’t stand the thought of what was going to happen and yet he could nothing about it.

            “I understand,” Mycroft said, forcing himself to stay calm, “completely.” Moriarty nodded and dropped the paperwork for the man to sign on his desk. Mycroft did his best not to hesitate as he grabbed his pen and quickly signed his name. He wished now that he didn’t have to, that he could come up with a different plan, but he was worried what would happen to the Moulin Rouge and its people if he didn’t. Moriarty had power and would destroy them all if he didn’t. Moriarty had calmed quickly and snatched the papers away.

            “Good. Now that we have an understanding,” he said coolly, tucking the papers away, “it would appear that, erm...” He scrunched his eyebrows in distaste, glancing to the Moulin Rouge, bright and merry outside the window, “you have the means to transform your beloved Moulin Rouge...”         

            “INTO A THEATER!” Mycroft was standing in front of the actors and dancers of the Moulin Rouge, showing them a small model of what the Moulin Rouge was to turn into. They cheered and jumped, excited for what was going to happen. He was dying on the inside, knowing what Moriarty had planned for his brother. He quickly closed it off however and smiled.

            “I shall win Sherlock over supper tonight,” he told Mycroft, chin held aloft. _Whether he wants to be won, or not._

 

            John yanked the paper from his typewriter, grimacing as he thought about the madman. If only they’d known sooner. He sighed, placing a new sheet in the typewriter and rubbing his hands through his hair as Mycroft’s booming voice echoed through his head. He was back in the front hall of the Moulin Rouge, listening to Mycroft and glancing to Sherlock. The man was dressed in a cream colored suit with an odd little hat that looked surprisingly good on his dark curls. He stood out beautifully against the crowd.

            The young man had glanced over at him and smiled. John grinned, forcing himself to look away and back at Mycroft. Moriarty however, had been looking at Sherlock the entire time and believed the smile was for him. When the brunette realized that the Duke was staring at him, he turned his attention the him, forcing a sickly sweet smile onto his face.

            “We will have created the world's first completely modern, entirely electric, totally Bohemian,” Mycroft told them, rather quite elated about being able to change the Moulin Rouge as long as he blocked out Moriarty and Sherlock, “all singing, all dancing, STAGE SPECTACULAR!” Everyone clapped, excited by this opportunity, but screamed when a large wrecking ball smashed through the back and threw the Holmes brother to the floor. Everyone was on their feet backing away some. Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he looked for his brother.

            “The show must go on!” Mycroft stood, covered from head to foot in dust and Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing once more to see John laughing. It warmed his heart in a way he’d never thought he’d feel.

 _Yes, the show would go on, but Sherlock would not attend the supper that night, or the following night._  

            Sherlock sat wrapped in one of his silk night gowns in one of the plush chairs in Greg’s apartment room while the man himself stood at the stove. They were laughing quietly, Sherlock having forgiven his brother-in-law, when the young brunette heard rustling behind the makeshift curtain and he quickly shushed Greg, telling him to pay attention. The atmosphere was light and happy, candles were lit and placed everywhere and Sherlock had never been more content in his life. He snorted softly as John sprung out, acting out the sitar player in the play.

            “‘ _Tell me you don't love me!_ ’,”  the man cried, draped in the small, intricately detailed curtain, “mad with jealousy, the evil Maharaja forces the courtesan to make the penniless sitar player believe he doesn't love him.” Sherlock leaned forward, a smile playing at his lips as John spoke the scene into being. Greg grinned as he watched the two, glad to see Sherlock finally happy. He knew what Sherlock was having to do with the Duke, he and Mycroft had talked extensively, but Greg refused to tell him about these two. He wouldn’t ruin their happiness. John threw the curtain off and leapt up close to the window, putting on a ridiculous accent as he grinned at Sherlock.

            “ _’Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!_ ’ says the penniless sitar player, throwing money at her feet and leaving the kingdom forever!” he told them, acting everything out dramatically. Sherlock chuckled quietly, drinking in the poet in his element, smiling at the warmth in his chest. John jumped onto the balcony, wobbling as he threatened to fall over.

            “No!!” Sherlock cried, jumping up and reaching for him as he grinned, Greg turning with wide eyes as he watched the man almost topple. John turned and laughed and moved around the outside of Sherlock’s changing screen, basking in the praise as Greg cheered him from the kitchen. Sherlock grinned, leaning forward and trying to find John as he moved between the windows.

            “Oh,” he called dramatically, scooting around restlesslyin his chair, “but a life without love, that's--that's terrible.” He couldn’t keep from laughing, leaning back in his chair as John poked his head from behind Sherlock’s changing screen.

            “Yes,” he replied with a mischievous smirk, “it is, but the sitar player..” he moved forward, sitting on the arm of the chair and bumped noses with Sherlock, “with the magical sitar...” Greg snorted and shook his head, picking up the dish he’d cooked for the evening.

            “Alright you two!” John and Sherlock ignored him, too caught up in each other to hear him. John hummed, nuzzling against his curls and his throat, Sherlock smiling happily and wrapping his arms around John. “Time to eat,” he said, walking over with the chicken platter and set it down. “The magical sitar that can only speak the truth says... he says...” 

 _The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return._  

            The actors and actresses were practicing and getting ready for the big performance while the changes were being made to the Moulin Rouge to turn it into a proper theater. While everyone else was practicing their parts and rehearsing their lines, Sherlock and John were ‘rehearsing’ privately. They were connected at the lips, noses brushing when Moriarty threw the door open, arms full with an obnoxiously large wicker basket and a blanket. The two jumped apart and John casually covered his mouth to hide the redness around his lips.

            “Would you care to join me for a picnic pet?” he asked in a tone that more demanded than questioned. Sherlock’s eyes were a bit wider than normal as he looked to Moriarty and raised a brow. He could see John pretending to study the script intently out of the corner of his eye.

            “Well, Moriarty, I would love to, but we have so much to do, so much work!” he said, gesturing to the script in his hand as he flashed a smile. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed a bit. He shrugged and stepped forward, grinning hard at John.

            “Well, I do believe that if the young writer can carry a blanket and basket, you can both do it in my presence,” he replied, handing the basket to John and giving them both a hard glare that they easily shrugged off.

            “Alright Molly, so the magical sitar player falls off the roof...” John said, watching as the girl nodded in understanding.

            “Yes, I know. I-I’ll get it eventually,” she replied, closing her eyes and thinking, “‘The greatest thing you'll ever...” She was drowned out as the band started to play and John rolled his eyes, smiling at the man.

 

            John and Sherlock were kissing passionately again, trying to undo the other’s collar as they waited on Moriarty to return. The man himself flung the door open not moment later and they jumped apart, mouths red and slightly swollen. “Still at it my pet?” he inquired, taking in the uncharacteristic looks. Sherlock nodded, smiling as he lifted the script

 

            Molly was having a hard time learning her line as everyone was practicing flips and dancing numbers. She was trying different words, trying to memorize his single line, but John and Sherlock were worried all the Absinth had more than likely rattled her brains a bit.

 

            “Oh my dear, sweet Duke,” he gushed, causing John to hold in a snort, “there's so many lines to learn. We've been drilling them over and over.” He gave a winning smile and Moriarty simply took it at that, noting he was doing much better than their meeting last night, and nodded firmly and leading the both of them out.

 _For try as the Duke may, it was almost too easy for the young writer and the lead actress to invent perfectly legitimate reasons to avoid him._  

            John waited patiently at a respectful distance while Mycroft talked to Sherlock and Moriarty and waited until he had left to walk up behind them. The two were seated in front of the half-finished stage and Sherlock smirked a bit when he felt John’s presence suddenly behind them. He knew he couldn’t go thirty minutes without seeing him The poet knelt down and gently tapped Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling politely. The man was dressed impeccably in a thick, warm suit and heavy coat and John thought he looked absolutely delicious.

            “Monsieur Sherlock,” he murmured, ignoring the menacing way Moriarty turned his head and pulled his lips back in a sneer. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, managing to give John a rather condescending look. “I haven't quite finished writing that new scene. The...” John held back a smirk and smiled despite the chill he felt coming off Moriarty, “‘Will the lovers be meeting at the sitar player’s humble abode" scene. And I wondered if I could work on it with you later tonight.” He gave Sherlock a small smile, biting his tongue as Moriarty’s eyes widened.

            “But pet!” he said, brow furrowing as he hissed at him, glaring at John, “I have arranged a stunning supper in the Gothic Tower.” He formed an ugly smile on his lips and breathed through his nose. “I would hate for you to miss it.” John shrugged, moving to stand again as Sherlock seemed to think there no way out.

            “Well, it's not important, we can work on it tomorrow,” he replied, ready to thank them for their time until Sherlock rounded on him, lips parted in obviously feigned outrage.

            “ How dare you think that!? It most certainly cannot wait until tomorrow. ‘The lovers will be meeting in the sitar's player humble abode’ scene is the most important in the production. We'll work on it tonight until I'm completely satisfied.” John could see the small smile on his lover’s slightly darkened lips and he wished he could look down to see the fury in Moriarty’s eyes.

            “Pet!” Sherlock turned his suddenly sharp gaze upon Moriarty and held up a finger. He was really getting tired of being called that. The shorter held back a snarl and clammed up.

            “Excuse me, Duke,” he said as he gave a small nod to the both of them and then headed off. Moriarty was furious and he turned to John who shivered a bit at the look and nodded.

            “Sorry,” he murmured, before also turning and heading away, but not before sending a smile after Sherlock retreating form. The Duke growled under his breath as he turned and looked at the actors and actresses dancing and practicing for the upcoming performance. Sherlock and John met up quickly and hurried up to one of the balconies being worked on, making sure they couldn’t be seen behind the construction curtains as Mycroft addressed the large group.

            “Bright and early tomorrow morning, we'll begin on act two; "The lovers are discovered!" John had a hold on Sherlock’s face, pulling him down so he could kiss him desperately, messily in the heat of the moment. Both faces were flushed as they nipped and sucked, holding each other as close as they could; completely unaware of what was happening below. They had their own little bubble of warmth and oblivion.

            “Holmes!” Mycroft turned from where he was talking with a few of the directors and construction workers and saw Moriarty hurrying towards him. He managed a smile and leaned on his umbrella.

            “Dear Duke, I’ve personally arranged everything for that special supper in the Gothic Tower tonight,” he said quickly, ready to get all this over and done with. His brother was not making this easy. The shorter snorted, like a dragon would, and Mycroft expected to see fire.

            “Oh why don’t you go eat it yourself Holmes?!” he hissed, “he’s not falling easily!” Mycroft wasn’t exactly surprised, but he managed the right expression.

            “That’s certainly not right!” Moriarty rolled his eyes, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, growling quietly. John and Sherlock were kissing furiously, bracing themselves against one of the wide columns as they stuck to one another, not noticing the two men’s conversation as the man’s lipstick stained John’s lips.

            “I cannot fathom why his work is so important to him,” he said, resisting the urge to throw his arms up, “but he's always at it with that damned writer!” Mycroft sighed, just happening to look up and his eyes widened. He felt anger and sadness his him simultaneously and he had to steady himself. He really was _at it_ with the writer. “If I don't see him tonight, I'm very well leaving and taking my money with me!” He noticed where the elder Holmes was looking and started turning his head and Mycroft heart sank.

            “No! Duke!” he nearly shouted and Moriarty jumped, scowling as he turned back to the taller. Mycroft hid his look of relief behind a mask of indifference, forcing himself not to look back at the two men. “I'll insist Sherlock take the night off,” he soothed and he saw the dark headed man’s brow furrow.

            “Yes, alright,” he muttered, forcing an unhappy smile onto his lip, “eight o’ clock sharp.” Moriarty nodded affirmatively before turning and walking off. Mycroft let a deep frown take over his lip as he turned back to the balcony, watching his brother look out over the stage floor, John peeking out from the side. The poet grinned as he ran his hands over Sherlock, causing the man to grin and slap at him playfully. He turned, moving them where they were covered and kissed him deeply. John hummed, holding onto the taller’s hips through his suit.

            “You'll come?” he asked breathlessly, grinning as he kissed all along his face, “tonight?” Sherlock laughed softly, smiling as John pulled him down to kiss his forehead, curly bangs and all.

            “Yes,” he murmured in returned, smiling as John squeezed his hand and began down the half covered balcony, “of course.” Sherlock followed, trying to look behind and around them to make sure no one could see. Mycroft was moving slowly, his eyes still glaring daggers into the two of them. Sherlock had sworn to help this place, and now he would be the one to sink it. He knew, he... and Greg... his husband had known and he’s not told him.

            “What time?” Sherlock turned to him, holding back a burst of giggles at the color smeared over his mouth and cheeks. Bright red color splotched his tan skin.

            “Eight o' clock,” he whispered, shooing him with his hands. The elation on John’s face made him smile, made his heart ache in the most delightful way.

            “Promise?” Sherlock nodded, smiling as he glanced behind him, trying to fix his hair a bit.

            “Yes,” he replied hurried, “ now go!” John nodded, pulling him close for one last kiss before running off. Sherlock felt light headed he was so dizzy with happiness. Never, in all his life had he felt like this. Never had he dreamed he could feel so...

            “Are you completely mad!?” Sherlock’s stomach dropped and he could tell his brother was having to take great strength to not shout at him. He stood stiffly in front of the younger, expression calm, but Sherlock knew better. His voice was low and commanded respect. His heart was in the pit of his stomach now and it pounding out of fear instead of adoration. “The Duke holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge! He's trying his best to make you comfortable,” he said and Sherlock felt himself twisting, his whole being writhing at the mention of the duke. “He’s doing his best.” He was a horrid man. How could Mycroft expect this of him? “He’s spent a fortune on you. He's given you new clothes, done his best to be kind-“

            “Kind?!” Sherlock seethed, suddenly furious, “is anything but kind and if it were up to him I would be locked away, only pulled out when he wanted to use me and-” He wasn’t given a chance to finish. His heart was squeezing now and his breathing was growing shallow as fear started to take him over.

            “And you're dallying with the writer?!” Mycroft eyes were wide finally, his composition gone entirely. “Are you trying to send everyone here out of business and send them to the streets? You made a promise.” Sherlock reigned himself in, taking a deep breath. So Mycroft no longer cared. He was fine with that. He would be damned if he let his emotions show.

            “It’s nothing, Mycroft,” he tried waving it off although his voice quavered, “don’t-”

            “I SAW YOU, SHERLOCK!” Mycroft didn’t bring his voice to a full yell, but it was enough to startle the younger Holmes. Sherlock felt everything closing in on him, squeezing the life out of him.

            “It’s nothing,” he repeated, face taught as he looked anywhere but at his brother, “it’s an infatuation. It’s new to me. It’ll pass.” He looked sickly all of the sudden, he felt even worse. He turned around quickly, looking back to the stage. Mycroft had promised to protect him as a child, and now he was throwing him to the dogs. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. Sherlock wished for the first time in his life he could just disappear from his brother’s gaze as the man stepped forward slowly.

            “It had better,” he replied quietly, unable to read his brother, “you need to go and tell him it’s over. You’re expected in the Tower at eight.” He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “You made a promise Sherlock. I’m sorry.” Sherlock did his best not to sneer, ignoring the pain ripping his chest in two. He... he couldn’t be with John. The only... he’d never... not before in his life had he loved another human being.

            Mycroft turned just as he saw his brother’s face fall and walked off, umbrella swinging lifelessly by his side. They’d lied and snuck around. His husband had _helped_ them even thogh he knew and fully understood the situation. Sherlock brought his hands to his mouth, taking deep breathes as he tried to fill his lungs with air. The space around him was crushing all of the sudden, it made him hurt, made him want to cry. He hadn’t cried since their parents had passed. He walked away from the balcony railing slowly, surprisingly high noted words left his lips.

            “ _If I should die this very moment...I wouldn't fear._ ” His steps were slow as his brain tried to work, tried to process the emotions, and the hormones suddenly flooding his usually temperate system. “ _For I've never known completeness. Like being here, wrapped in the warmth of you...loving every breath of you._ ”

 

_John buried his face in his hands, tears coming silently and dripping in front of his typewriter. His chest hurt, writing about the pain his lover had been in. Able to see him suffering, distressed over the happenings of the Moulin Rouge and... He sobbed, unable to continue at the moment._

 

            The words were nothing but wisps of air as they only just managed to pass his lips. Tears were in his eyes, making them glisten as his brain began to fog over and his lungs began rattling for air. Memories played over and over again, dreams he had once had that vanished the moment John Watson had stepped into his life. “ _Why live life from dream to dream? And dread the day..._ ” He wheezed, leaning heavily against the wall, as he gasped for air and coughed, doing his best to get air. 

_How could I have known in those last fatal days…_

            Sherlock wheezed, his whole body shuddering, convulsing as he looked into one of the many mirrors placed along the way. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he felt dizzy. He coughed again, violently into his hand. He tried to steady himself. He had to go tonight… He would destroy everything if he didn’t… 

_That force darker than jealousy, and stronger than love, had begun to take hold of Sherlock..._

            Sherlock only managed a few panicked breathes and one last desperate cough before darkness overcame him and he collapsed to the ground, the slightest sheen on blood glazing his teeth as his eyes rolled back in his head. His clothing pooled around him, and he lay there, waiting unconsciously for someone to save him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chap doesn't fit with the rest very well, but as long as you read the top bit, you understand what's going on and I'll be going back and editing the chapters so they're a little more cohesive!))

**Author's Note:**

> So I was a bit nervous about posting this cause it seems so silly, but then I finally thought to heck with it. I was watching Moulin Rouge the other day, if you haven’t seen it, you ought to go right now and see it, and got this silly little idea in my head. I do hope you enjoy this, there will be more if anyone happens to read it, (I unfortunately do not own either Sherlock or Moulin Rouge. All rights belong to their respectful owners!)


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